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AFTERNOONS 

BY 

Mrs. Julia F. Snow 



DEDICATED TO 

MY PLEASANT NEIGHBORS OF 

ROSE H I I, I, 



BUFFALO, N. Y. 
1910 



T5-3S31 



Copyright, 1910, by 
Mrs. JULIA F. SNOW 



©CI A 2734 56 



CONTENTS 

Introduction, 4> 

The Average Person, 5 

Subdivisions of Society, 11 

"a Citizen of No Mean City," 20 

The Expressions of Houses, 25 

The Duty of Common Sense, 44 

Things Which Do Not ''Just Happen," 48 

A Few of the Behefs and Practices of the Society of 

Friends, Known as Quakers, 52 

The Owl and the Chicken, 6l 

On the Passing of Tenderness, 64 

The Fairy Tales of Science, 71 

The By-products of Charity, 75 

Concerning the Duties, Obligations, and Privileges ot 

"Others," 80 

From the Dolls Booth (Polly Dolly Adeline and Sister 

May), 83 

Concerning Painless Charity, 85 

Concerning Wedding Gifts, 88 

Christmas — Two Different Lights, 93 

A Post-Christmas Word, 102 

The Joy of Life, 107 

Indian Summer, Il6 



[33 



INTRODUCTION 

THESE little essays and talks are really the 
crystallization of the opinions, observations, 
and experiences of many years of a rather 
busy life — awaiting a convenient season for 
expression. Some have been printed before, and 
most of them were written during a delightful 
summer spent in most pleasant environment at 
Rose Hill, Canada. 

So much of the book was the result of the 
veranda life of that summer that I have dedi- 
cated it to my charming neighbors of Rose Hill. 



[4] 



THE AVERAGE PERSON, OR A PLEA 
FOR MEDIOCRITY 

IF there were not so niany of us, we must be 
above or below the average. But as it is, we 
really need a kind word of encouragement. 

Mediocrity does not mean uniformity, nor 
does it mean inferiority. It is a snug and com- 
fortable region of achievement, rather than of 
stern effort or aspiration. 

Emerson foolishly suggests as a help toward 
aspiration that we "hitch our wagon to a star"; 
but just think for a moment of the feelings of 
the star! Supposing you were a star; how would 
you like to have a clumsy earthly wagon lump- 
ing and lumbering after you through space, and 
fancy the condition of its load, strewn through 
the atmosphere and smashing on the earth 
below! 

But if you are an average person, and have 
the luck to possess a wagon, try to keep on terra 
firma, observe the rules of the road, and get 
your load to its destination safely and in good 
condition, without attempting aerial flights of 
any sort. 

Mediocrity does not mean inferiority, for 
while there are so many of us not quite as good 
as the others, some are really much better, and, 
in spite of the "rules of the Union," do excellent 
work. The odd part of it is, that the average 
persons seldom realize the special thing in which 
they are best, and often aspire to be credited 
with work in which they are really inferior. It 
is not only poor earth-born souls, altogether, 
who make this mistake. Who ever reads the 

[5] 



prose works of Milton, who esteemed them above 
'Paradise Lost"? And Bunyan thought much 
more of his dull, limping verses than that glori- 
ous lamp of Christendom, the "Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress." Some who can cook delightfully aspire to 
music or painting, of which they make a doleful 
failure. Some one who can sew beautifully as- 
pires to be a nurse, or a born nurse insists on 
writing poor stories. And a snug, comfortable 
darling of a girl, with whom you delight to 
spend an evening, has burning aspirations for 
social distinction, and longs for a "salon" of 
her own. 

And so it goes. 

One of the proverbial fallacies is, that "what- 
ever is worth doing, is worth doing well," and 
"whatever one does at all should be done with 
all one's might and strength," etc. Not exactly 
so, for a light hand, a dexterous touch, a gift of 
discrimination and execution (often of omission) 
is often better for some things than the whole 
soul's tasking. A good many things can be left 
out altogether and the world will not suffer. I 
saw one of these over-conscientious women hem- 
ming dish-towels with a French hem, and a 
friend of mine says that she omits to ask her 
friends to a cup of tea because she feels that 
before doing it she ought to clean the attic 
thoroughly. (N. B. — Slie has since learned 
better.) 

But the average person generally has a house 
clean and comfortable, and ready for a friend's 
visit in a spare hour, and the average meal is 
good, clean, comfortable, and paid for. The 
average person is quite capable of most things 
that need to be done. He pays his bills and sends 
his children to school, clean, well equipped, and 

[6] 



well clothed. He treats his family well and 
usually goes to church, and, in general, follows 
the Golden Rule of neighborliness. He has a 
great dislike for debt, although the "woes of 
life o'ertake him," sometimes, and debts, as well 
as other trials, may be his. He does not expect 
or strive to be president, although he holds 
small but important offices (in fact, he must to 
be an Average Person). He votes regularly on 
election day, and knows why he prefers this or 
that candidate. He sleeps well at night, although 
he does not object to taking his turn with a 
sick child, or even a sick neighbor. He enjoys 
his meals, sometimes relishes onions, but from 
pure neighborliness refrains before going into 
company. He neither expects nor longs to be 
Paderewski, but he relishes the music of the 
Saeno-erbunds and deliohts in the Park concerts, 
and loves the music of the schools which his 
children attend. He has no wish to be a great 
artist, but likes to go to the art galleries on a 
holiday once in a while. If he has pictures, they 
are good of their sort. There is a choice, even 
in chromos. But the Average Person generally 
chooses good photographs for his walls. And it 
is much better to know a little music and art 
than none at all, and the taste grows and im- 
proves with indulgence. 

Some of them are dishonest and steal the 
money which they count or collect or receive. 
But the Average Man is honest, "or the State 
totters." Society cannot exist unless most of the 
people are honest and pay debts. 

The Average Man is fairly ambitious; would 
like to be a little richer, and looks forward to 
better days and more holidays; but, like Gov- 
ernor B — of the Bigelow papers, "He stays to 

[7] 



his hum and looks arter his folks," till he can 
take some of them with him for holidays. 

He is seldom led astray by the charms of an 
opera dancer, and the microbe of divorce passes 
him by. Nor does his wife stray from the path 
of virtue. She knows John better than even the 
Recording Angel, faults and all. But woe to any 
one who suggests that he has any faults! 

She seldom eats onions, but will cook them, 
uncomplainingly, for him. And has love a 
stronger test.^ 

What would the Republic be without the 
Average Man, who votes and is patient (often 
too much so), and his wife, who is his helpmate ? 

We love the Average Man. We live with him 
and insist that he is far above the great average, 
as, indeed, he is certain to be in one, two, or 
three things. There is some one place in which 
he is indispensable, and whose wheels refuse to 
go 'round properly if he is ill or disabled. He is 
the pillar of the church, maybe, and, although 
his subscriptions are moderate, they are faith- 
fully paid. 

No one else keeps a better set of books and 
he is not afraid of the bank expert. But although 
he is perfectly competent in his bookkeeping, 
and is perfectly willing to help his little boy in 
his arithmetic lesson, he cannot do it, for now- 
adays it is all "figure work" and **they do not 
teach us that way in our school." Still he is a 
help in all untechnical ways, and likes to go 
a-fishing with the boy, and make him willow 
whistles. 

The Average Person does all work fairly well, 
in all that is important. I am speaking of the 
Average American, although he may be a native 
of some other country, being an American. 

[8] 



He is never an anarchist, and he is an active 
partisan of good roads, whether he rides a bi- 
cycle, wagon, carriage, buggy, or motor car. 
As yet he is only interested in air-carriages as 
an interesting show. He is a good family man. 
("A good provider," it used to be called before 
women did the marketing.) A good customer, a 
good salesman (and, when he has a chance to 
be, all prefer him to the shop-girl behind the 
counter). A good, helpful, but unobtrusive neigh- 
bor. We can trust him, we love him, and his 
wife too. His heart is right and his brain clear. 
Sometimes he is slangy, and his English phe- 
nomenal, but the speech is sensible and friendly 
and the meaning unmistakable. 

We found out many of these things years ago, 
when secession was at work and the Union 
trembled. The Average Man who would "not 
stand any such nonsense." The army was organ- 
ized and he did it, and fought and suffered in it. 
The Average Woman helped him in all ways. 
She took care of the children while he was gone 
(and often he did not come back) ; organized and 
worked in hospitals ; and out of it all came organ- 
ized hospitals and trained nursing. The Repub- 
lic was saved and the Average Man and Woman 
did it, and the average was higher ever after. 

The Geniuses are few, but powerful ; the 
Average Person numerous and, in the long run, 
reliable, and even if the State totters, it is not 
to its fall. 

The Genius is master of all the days and 
hours, the devisor, maybe the waster, of revenues 
and resources. Everything stands aside for him. 
He may succeed — and when he does, oh! the 
beauty and the glory of it all ! And he is immor- 
tal. That is his reward. 

[9] 



But thank God for the Average Person ! It is 
sad to wander through the world and see the 
waste of average material in the vain effort to 
achieve great things. But a little music is better 
than none ; a little drawing is a great help ; a fair 
skill with a needle is better than poor pictures ; 
a loving and faithful hand in one's own family 
and among needy neighbors than irrational zeal 
in alien and foreign work. A wise justice in 
dealing with one's family and friends than pub- 
lic orations (badly given), and platform issues, 
not too well managed. 

Let us be glad of the Average Person, who 
knows not Chopin or Greig, but who willingly 
plays for the young people's dancing; who 
doesn't try to paint, but can make shadow pic- 
tures on the wall, which make the young ones 
scream with delight; who is smiling, not seduc- 
tive ; comfortable, not dramatic nor destructive ; 
merry without levity, religious without cant, and 
patriotic without fanaticism. 

The Average Person does not expect a monu- 
ment to him. He does his work well, — better, — 
best — loving, helping, caring for all, bearing 
his pain with patience, his life with a smile, and 
with kindly smiles and the daily joy of living 
for his reward, and his monument is the respect 
of his acquaintances, the love of his friends, and 
the tender tears of love from his beloved, when 
he leaves us for the better world whose average 
is one of eternal happiness and progress. 



[10] 



SUBDIVISIONS OF SOCIETY 

OF these there are many, and in the order 
of their importance to the world at large 
they follow each other something in this 
order : 

Relatives, Associates, 

Lovers, Duties, 

Friends, Habits, 

Acquaintances, Neighbors. 

relatives 

They are of various degrees and countless in 
numbers. 

In order to exist at all, a pair of a more or 
less well-selected parents is absolutely essential. 
They continue to be of more or less importance 
through life. They are the direct source of our 
existence and one's later advantage. One can- 
not do without a Father and Mother to begin 
with. Everybody has them, but has no choice in 
their selection. 

After them, the degree of relationship and 
number of relatives vary so much that one can- 
not classify, with any accuracy, degrees of im- 
portance, morally, socially, financially, or other- 
wise. There is the greatest choice in them, but 
you have no privilege of selection. There are 
relatives by blood and by law. Some of them 
are very nice, almost as nice as one's self. And 
others — well 

They are a wise provision of Providence to 
prevent the growth of conceit within the family 
circle, and, although sometimes they are very 
proud of one, they seldom mention it to the 

[11] 



person most interested. Some do not think it is 
good taste to do so. You had better not attempt 
any frivolous pleasantry with a relative. The 
sense of humor in the direction of law or con- 
sanguinity is limited, and the perspective seems 
wrong for that sort of thing. That is the real 
trouble with relatives, a wrong perspective. 

A serious view is much more successful. I 
have nothing to say against relatives. I have 
been a relative myself of several sorts all my 
life. 

As for Lovers, they are really the most inter- 
esting of all the subdivisions, even with regard 
to outsiders. To themselves and each other they 
are all absorbed and absorbing. In their inter- 
course with others, they are indifferent and per- 
functory and appeal to others from a sentimental 
or spectacular point of view. You cannot talk 
with them, and they are oblivious to the simplest 
form of family or social life. They only discover 
how much so they are when, after years of mar- 
ried life, their own young people treat them in 
the same way, and they recall past years with a 
certain humiliation. 

Everybody is a good deal tired, bored, and 
bothered with them, but, remembering that the 
condition is but temporary, universal, and al- 
most inevitable, bear it all with loving patience 
until the transformation is complete and the 
pretty pair of butterflies float off into the sum- 
mer atmosphere. (This is a figure of speech; it 
is often very different.) Lovers think that it is 
nobody's business but their own, and are quite 
indifferent to all outside opinions, of all outside 
spectators. This view constitutes the chronic 
mistake of lovers, for a good, happy, successful 
marriage is a matter of rejoicing in a whole 

[12] 



community, and an ill-mated, mistaken mar- 
riage is a public calamity, whose possible con- 
sequences shadow the future for years and for 
ages to come. However, no one can exactly fore- 
tell, and it may be better than seems possible 
at first, for nature is strong and has a good deal 
to say about results. 

Respecting Friends, there is much to say. 
The world has a loose way of talking about 
friends when they mean only familiar acquaint- 
ances, greatly misleading one to confuse all sorts 
of associates with the holy relation of Friend. 

For there is a holy Friendship. Moses was 
the Friend of God, and Christ enjoyed the closest 
and most intimate and affectionate friendships. 
"A friend is made for adversity." "There is a 
Friend that sticketh closer than a brother." 

But with earthly friendships there is a great 
difference in friends. He is more than kin and 
more than kind, and he may change. Adversity 
is not a crucial test. The world is not as meanly 
affected by adversity as is supposed. Strangers 
are often kinder in adversity than friends. It is 
a simple Christian duty to show kindness to the 
afflicted, who may be strangers themselves with 
no claim to friendship, and the withdrawal of 
association with those in adversity may be a 
mere matter of leisure, or the want of it. Friend- 
ship implies equality, sympathy, and a certain 
amount of similarity of tastes, habits, and ac- 
quisitions. One wishes to share pleasures and 
benefits with friends, and does not wait until 
the crape is on the door to show its love and 
sympathy. One feels like this in real friend- 
ship. 

"How^ John would enjoy this trip! Can't we 
get him to join us .^" 

[13] 



*'Tom likes this kind of music. We must get 
him to go with us next time Josefy plays." 

"The H.'s are just the kind of people that 
Ned likes. Let us invite him with them to 
dinner." 

And so a life-long good will, delightful even- 
ings, and all sorts of pleasant opportunities mul- 
tiply themselves from this kind of friendship. 

Friends need not confide in each other, al- 
though they can if they will. They need not 
always explain themselves, for they trust each 
other too much to need to do so. (It would often 
be better if they did, however.) 

They need not even talk. Friendly silence is 
the best thing of all. They are happy together, 
but friendship can bear the test of absence. 

If sorrow comes, they will not be far apart, 
but it need not be their introduction as they 
come together with outstretched hands, moist 
eyes, and silent speech. 

This is the real kind. And I have noticed that 
it thrives in outdoor life, with walks, drives, 
rides, or even a quiet hour on the veranda or 
"under the greenwood tree" — a good, whole- 
some sort, too. 

There is a curious phase of friendship not 
altogether spurious, but odd. Some do not be- 
lieve in its existence, but it does exist. The)^ are 
such good friends that they are sure you will 
not mind any sort of treatment, any sort of 
commission or omission. They slight the ones 
that they really love best, in favor of all sorts 
of more or less desirable acquaintances who do 
not care a rap whether they are included or 
excluded, while the shut-out friend really does 
care and suffers, although he pretends not to. 

The real secret of friendship is the feeling of 

[14] 



companionship, of being needed by each other. 
It is not necessary to have illusions of perfec- 
tion in friends. But it needs lots of patience, 
love, and loyalty to endure and often ignore the 
hard, literal fact of faults and defects in each 
other, whether of temper, temperament, or even 
of temperature, for ventilation is a point which 
has parted the best of friends, and is of far more 
importance to the permanence and enjoyment 
of friendship than a difference in beliefs in 
religion, politics, or even of social caste. 

Nothing can ever make up for a lost friend. 
You must lose parents and relatives. You may 
lose husband or wife, and, in part, the loss be 
restored or made up to you, and sometimes more 
and better than before. But each friend is 
unique, and the loss leaves a permanent void 
and scar. 

That is one reason why Acquaintances are so 
very important. There can be so many. There 
are so many of them; hundreds, perhaps even 
more. They present every variety of human 
character; good, bad, dull, spicy, restful, quiet, 
stimulating — all sorts. 

Provided that one has the usual stock of good 
manners and good temper, one can enjoy almost 
any or all of them by turns ; and if for any rea- 
son you do not enjoy certain of them, beyond 
the decencies of life, you need not trouble them 
much, or they you, for always there are others. 

There are wonderful possibilities in every ac- 
quaintance, the more utterly charming because 
not fully tested, for at any time they may become 
anything, everything, or nothing — to you. 

There is, so to speak, a limited demand for 
lovers (one at a time is usually sufficient) and 
friends, a small circle, because of the exquisite 

[15] 



delicacy of the position and the relation. But 
your acquaintance really demands little, and 
permits everything in the sunshine of congenial 
opportunity. In that, they may become "friends, 
countrymen, and lovers," at any time and become 
as necessary to life as relatives, tender as lovers, 
and loyal as friends, and they can be transformed 
into any and all of these. But they do not insist 
upon it, although the conditions may be life- 
long, and what is more sweet and tender than 
"mine auld acquaintance," which is always so 
pleasantly "brought to mind.'^" 

This variety is often found most pleasantly 
established among one's Associates. 

This species is found everywhere, although 
seldom of our own selection, and under all cir- 
cumstances, and even in our household help, 
our church, our club, our charity boards, com- 
mittees, societies, and assistants of all sorts. 
Those whom we meet daily on trains, cars, in 
hospitals, offices, banks — everywhere. 

No one ever knows their fellow-beings as well 
as your Associates, in these ways, know each 
other. There are no delicate concealments, no 
private weaknesses, no sheltered deficiencies. 
All is open to the fierce white light that beats 
into the office or committee room. But you 
rather like it. It is no worse for you than for 
the others. You all take your turn, and if faults 
show, so do the better qualities, and you know 
just how, when, and where to take each other, 
and you work together to the best advantage. 
This is true of charitable and club work, the 
arrangements of entertainments, as well as keep- 
ing house, entertaining guests, or running a 
great business house of any kind. 

Then, there are also Dependents — both vol- 

[16] 



untary and involuntary. "Some to which one is 
born, some achieved, and some thrust upon 
one," all requiring your utmost tact and delicacy 
in their treatment. And they may belong to any 
or all of the classes mentioned before, or they 
may be simply derelicts, bereft of sailing or 
steering gear, heavily loaded, too light to sink, 
too heavy to float, deserted, water-logged. Can 
you tow them in .^ Can you lighten them ? Or 
must you avoid and desert them for self and 
family preservation ? Of these, each one is a 
lesson in wisdom, tact, kindness, or justice and 
sternness, too, if need be. 

The most inscrutable of all are our Habits. 
You cannot always remember when you acquired 
them or how. They may be any of the others, 
but all faded out and only the habit remaining. 
You see them about so often, and neither you 
nor they care much about it. You cannot do 
much for each other, nor are you fond of each 
other. Sometimes the intercourse is irksome, 
sometimes disagreeable, and you vow you will 
never go there again. 

But you do! That is what makes it a habit. 
And when the Inevitable happens, and the 
Releaser from Trials and the Destroyer of 
Delight takes them away, and the Habit is 
broken, you cannot understand the feeling of 
loss and loneliness which comes to you. There 
was, perhaps, no real reason why the Habit 
was formed in the beginning, but for that very 
reason it is hard to have it broken. 

The Duty is sometimes like the Habit, but 
there is a real reason for it, and a definite reason 
is a great help. Besides, Duty may be com- 
pleted and ended, may be only temporary, and 
that gives a brisk vitality to the matter while it 

[17] 



lasts, and a clear, vigorous satisfaction when 
ended. 

But best and sweetest of all our elective asso- 
ciations is the heaven-sanctioned one, "Our 
Neighbor." Half of the Tables of our Lord are 
given to regulating our treatment of Him. 
Christ's own Commandment enjoins our love of 
Him, and the holiest of rewards come to those 
who love Him as they love themselves, their own 
exquisite Ego — our involuntary Ideal. 

They may live next door to you, or not, and 
often they do so. But such close proximity is 
not really needed and cannot be, because there 
are so many of them. Proximity certainly does 
not do it, for such are often farther oil than 
neighbors across the seas. 

But the real neighbor who is never in the way 
and never out of the way, with whom you share 
your privileges and your helps, does not take 
coarse liberties with your house, room, or gar- 
den, or walk into the house uninvited and 
through private entrances, and reveal private 
matters thus accidentally made known, or ap- 
propriate books and goods unasked. This last is 
not the kind of neighbor whom I mean. But the 
one who knows when you are alone and lonely, and 
drops in, or alone and tired, and stays away, is 
your real neighbor. You withhold nothing from 
each other, and you do not forget your benefits, 
but return them in season, and you are ready 
with open hand, even at some personal incon- 
venience. They do not intrude into your secrets. 
You have a great sorrow — a trial — even dis- 
grace. They know it, or suspect it, but they do 
not touch your wound. They will pour in oil 
and wine, but will not probe it. Perhaps all your 
neighbors know it, but they keep a golden 

[18] 



silence toward you and each other. The tragedies 
of a quiet neighborhood are known and pitied, 
but not talked over. To a real Neighbor you can 
talk or be silent. You can try a little pleasantry 
or even talk nonsense. A wise silence seals the 
lips to the trials of others. From such neighbors 
nothing is withheld but blame and harsh criti- 
cism. One may go to heaven because one loves 
one's neighbors. But one really deserves little 
credit when one loves such neighbors. It is so 
easy, so pleasant, so joyous to live near them, 
that it is already almost heaven, as if the Pearly 
Gates stood wide open and the Golden Streets 
were daily trodden by our beloved Neighbors. 



[19] 



"A CITIZEN OF NO MEAN CITY" 

SO said and claimed St. Paul. But Tarsus is 
forgotten, except for its glorious citizen, 
whose fame has filled the whole world. It 
is the citizen who ennobles the city, and not the 
city — the dwellers within its bounds. 

What is citizenship ? And what are its rights 
and duties.? 

At the time of the New Year municipalities 
change officers. New lords and new laws take 
their places and oaths are sworn to support 
the charters, constitutions, and by-laws, etc. 
The average good citizen makes more or less 
numerous good resolutions, to be more or less 
well kept. 

Citizenship grows constantly more and more 
complicated. Good citizenship has many more 
obligations than to vote regularly and to keep 
out of jail. In fact, voting is not so much a duty 
as a restricted privilege, neither possessed nor 
deserved by all residents, and is quite aside from 
the more essential functions of good citizenship. 

The privileges of good citizenship include 
orderly conduct, neighborly behavior, the pro- 
tection of the police and fire department, public 
lights, care and improvement of streets, roads, 
and highways, drainage, rights of way, and 
rules of the road. All of these, and more, are the 
blessed rights of citizens, and constantly help to 
make life better worth having and living. And 
each resident man, woman, child (and even 
animals), have duties as well as privileges, 
which, when performed, make the city the dear 
and well-beloved possession of its citizens. 

[20] 



The French Revolution abolished every title, 
every distinction, and most possessions, but it 
dared not take away the title of "Citizen." That 
survived even the Terror. 

Every accomplishment, every gift and grace, 
every well-performed duty, every kindly and 
pleasant act, and the beauty, taste, good breed- 
ing, and hospitality of "all who dwell below the 
skies" is a most valuable asset, and adds im- 
measurably to the value and importance of 
every town and village. When it is said of that 
town, "Blankville is such a delightful town; 
such charming people! such hospitable and 
kindly families reside there! They make their 
homes so pleasant to strangers and even to their 
neighbors!'^ 

When these things are said, who can reckon 
how much this kindly verdict adds to the civil, 
even the commercial, value of Blankville! 

Concord (Mass.) is a rather pretty, not very 
important. New England village, and there are 
many such. But Concord shines forever in the 
glory of Emerson, Hawthorne, Lowell, the Al- 
cotts, and the other illuminatii of that period. 

It is not fair to compare the greatness and 
glory of Roman citizenship with ours of this 
period. Rome was built for its citizens, not by 
them, and its glory pertains to its Rulers, the 
conquerors of the whole known world, who built 
their cities and (not inviting immigration) gra- 
ciously conferred their privileges upon the sub- 
jects — soldiers and slaves — who, being com- 
pelled to reside within their limits, received the 
boon of Roman citizenship. 

But we are not Rome. We have created our 
own cities, built them of such material as lay at 
hand, and made them fit habitations for men 

[21] 



and their families, and, in spite of defects and 
undevelopment, improved them from time to 
time and made the name of "American citizen'* 
respected the world over. But the citizens came 
first, and the city later, to receive its image and 
superscription, its value and estimation from 
the qualities of the men and women who built it. 

For every man, woman, and child (even every 
animal permitted within its boundaries) belongs 
to the commonwealth of that borough. Every 
well-built house, every well-kept lawn or garden, 
every conveniently planned home, every grand 
old tree, every strong and thrifty young tree adds 
its value. Even the green triangle at the cross 
streets, with its clump of shi-ubbery and maybe 
its fountain or wayside seat, multiplies the treas- 
ures of memory in recalling the charms and 
attraction of the place. How much more 
the character or attainment of its favored resi- 
dents ! 

Residents ? That is the word. It is well to go 
to and fro in the earth that health may be bene- 
fited and knowledge be increased, and to share 
in the "give and take" of the world's goods. 
But long absences not only detract from the 
value of the citizenship, but detach the citizen 
from the city, and interest and affection both 
suffer. 

When a handsome new house is built, finished 
and furnished, and the eyes of friendly regard 
are fixed upon it, and the desire of all hearts is 
moved toward it, then the owners pick up and 
pack up and start off for long journeys and 
absences over the earth perhaps for a year, 
maybe more. This is great fun, maybe, but 
poor citizenship. Such a house, when deserted, 
is most desolate, and positively impairs the uses 

[22] 



and dignity of the town. Compare this period 
of absence with the owner's return! The rooms 
are lighted, the supply carts make their daily 
visits, horses, carriages, and motors go about 
the streets, and the young folks stroll about the 
lawns and gardens. The income of the owner 
and resident is spent in the town for improve- 
ments, labor, and supplies, and in worship, 
charities, education, hospitality, and comfort. 
The good results from even one well-conditioned 
family spending its income within the limits of 
the town itself may make a vast difference in the 
well-being of its other residents. 

All the world knows the effect of absenteeism 
upon Ireland, whose soil-won money is drained 
off into the hands of strangers and their lands 
and homes are left unto them desolate. Ireland's 
misery is largely owing to century-long course 
of "absent treatment." 

The simple presence of good, wise, cultivated, 
and interested citizens, who live and work for 
the benefit of their own town, is of incalculable 
benefit to all of its other citizens. 

It is this principle which is recognized in the 
value of the "College Settlement" work. Now, 
why not try real settlement work among one's 
reputable and even respectable neighbors ? 

When all the children go to one school, that 
school is apt to be good. And so with the 
churches, libraries, lyceums, and all other means 
of education. The elegant manners and deport- 
ment of a real lady will affect the culture of a 
generation of younger folks. But it cannot be 
wholly so if the stately mansion is always closed 
and abandoned "in the sweet o' the year" for 
seashore, sea voyage, the mountains, and the 
palm grove. A pleasant fireside or a veranda, 

[23] 



**now and then, is relished by the best of men," 
perhaps the worst. 

Hospitality is most beautiful and most impor- 
tant and most enjoyable. But the feeling that 
you have the privilege of a frequent hour with 
a real neighbor is worth many receptions, 
delightful as they may be. 



[24] 



THE EXPRESSIONS OF HOUSES 

AS I passed through the streets of a great 
A\ city it seemed to me, being a stranger, 
as if there was a message to me in the 
outsides of all the houses by which I passed. 
The houses were most of them old, antedat- 
ing by many years their present occupants. 
There was often a cruel uniformity in their 
street fronts, but that in itself was a message. 
Could it be that the senseless bricks and 
mortar and stones were informed with intelli- 
gence, and yearned to communicate with my 
spirit ? Although no hospitable door was opened 
to me, the message grew plainer and plainer at 
every step. 

I am speaking now of houses. Homes will 
come hereafter. Nor do we discuss the evolution 
of architecture, from the cave-dwellers to huts, 

— to tents, — to pyramids ; from Egyptian and 
even older art to Greek, — to Roman, — to 
Gothic; from the Renaissance to the Mixed 
Modern, or every-man-his-own-builder (for of 
architecture there is none) , — each had its lesson 

— its message. 

The long, uniform, continuous rows and 
blocks of houses, so common in large and old 
cities, are a grievous necessity of their crowded 
condition. Economy, of space, of walls, and ma- 
terials, of light, paving, and drainage forces the 
rule upon land owners and builders. These 
buildings are dwellings, not houses. They may 
be homes, for the blessed principles of family 
life are not confined to any style of domicile. 
But long rows of houses, like those in Philadel- 

[25] 



phia (so like each other that even their tenants 
sometimes mistake their neighbors' houses for 
their own), convey to the mind an impression 
of a sort of communism, while it is at the same 
time a complete separation. It is a weariness to 
the spirit and a fatigue to the flesh, "grinding 
men's souls to a pale unanimity." This is the 
message and expression of long, uniform blocks 
of dwellings. Sometimes, of course, they do ac- 
quire an individual quality. 

I remember once, in Philadelphia, having 
occasion to pass through a certain street for 
several days in succession and at the same hour. 
The parlor blinds were open and the sunshine 
streamed in. On the window ledge slept a large 
gray cat. Lying there asleep, she conveyed to me 
a distinct message that she was a privileged 
intruder, and that the people were gentle and 
kindly folks; that they were generous and hos- 
pitable, for the blinds stood open wide, and the 
cat was plump and well fed. They must have 
been careful to dust and keep clean that window 
seat, for a cat dislikes a dusty place (always 
excepting the coal-bin). They were sensible, for 
she had no ribbon on her neck. They trusted 
their neighbors, for she wore no collar and 
badge of ownership. I saw absolutely nothing 
of the interior, only a gray cat asleep in the 
window, but she plainly told me all this at a 
glance. After all, the city block is only a crude 
collection of dwellings. 

Houses are different. A house has four or 
more walls to itself, roof, cellar, and separate 
individual entrance. It has its stairs to itself, 
that great problem in house architecture. Dante 
says, "There is no labor half so hard as going 
up and down another's stairs." You do not need 

[26] 



to see the people to understand the house. It 
speaks for itself. 

"Every man's house is his castle," says John 
Bull. This was good and true in the days when 
a castle was the only safe dwelling for a man, 
and more especially for his family, and when 
defense was so important that nothing could be 
left unguarded. But private dwellings built in 
the style of castles in these days are anachron- 
isms. The huge, heavy arches and narrow arrow- 
slit windows have only Apollo's arrows to keep 
out, and they ought to be welcomed, not ex- 
cluded, in our day and climate. Rounded towers 
of solid masonry and fortress-like corners and 
entrances are as much out of place in our 
smiling and neighborly avenues as the brave 
old Ritter himself would be, booted and spurred, 
in our aesthetic drawing-rooms. The expression 
of the outside of such a house would be a chal- 
lenge: "Come in if you dare! Your reception 
will be a hot one!" 

The expression of that modern house, with its 
countless modifications, which, for want of a 
better name, we call Queen Anne, is very differ- 
ent. It says: "Come in by all means. Your 
welcome will be a warm and kindly one." It 
represents what in England is called the villa 
style, and permits the largest liberty of design 
and adaptation to one's purse (be the same 
more or less full) as well as to family or con- 
dition. 

But English conditions of villa life are very 
different from ours. Theirs almost suppose a 
country, or, at least, a suburban location, and a 
certain seclusion very dear to an Englishman, 
but nearly impossible to Americans, and seldom 
desired, as may be seen hereafter. The family 

[27] 



are not of necessity known at all to their neigh- 
bors. They have many or few friends, but they 
are of their own selection. There is a high fence 
or a hedge or wall which protects the family 
seclusion, and one might live a lifetime so near 
as to touch, and so far as to scarcely know each 
other's names. It is their way, and they like it. 
As the Englishman said of his queen, "She is 
our whim. We pay for her, and it is nobody's 
business." Nor is it. But just now we are speak- 
ing of ourselves and about our ways, and we 
feel exactly as he felt. 

There is a beautiful and beloved city in my 
mind's eye to-day, where all who pass through 
its miles of homes can enjoy the fair, green 
lawns stretching from doorway to pavement, 
with no intervening hedge or fence. If there is 
any, it is of lace-like wire, an invisible barrier 
to dogs. The little twirling sprinkler scatters its 
tiny rainbow over the grass, which is emerald 
velvet, unless it is buried in snow in winter. 
Almost every house has its veranda. Sometimes 
it nearly surrounds the house. Behind its shad- 
ing vines, or gaily striped awning are pleasant 
faces, both young and old, in the summer days 
and evenings. There are chairs of all shapes, 
sometimes tables for books or work, sometimes 
hammocks, and sometimes steamer chairs, and 
the language of these houses is something like 
this: 

"Come into this pleasant outdoor parlor! It 
is not because it is scant and uncomfortable in- 
doors that we sit here, but here is sunshine and 
shade, and both coolness and warmth, and 
simple kindness toward neighbor and friend." 

In that city, this life is so much a matter of 
course that no more comment is excited than 

[28] 



would be by ladies and gentlemen walking along 
the streets — nay, not so much. The expression 
of the whole street is that of candor and security, 
of sincerity and good will. No plot nor intrigue 
could exist in such open-air life — such frank 
domesticity. Distant far be the day when tramp 
or bully shall put to flight this sweet outdoor 
life, and send those fair faces, white with fear, 
to hide behind curtains, and to look out only 
upon fenced gardens. 

Upon these green lawns one seldom finds 
flowers, but many flowering vines on the ve- 
randas. Flowers need seclusion and protection, 
while one shares but does not tempt in planting 
a flowering vine. 

In America, as yet, there are few great coun- 
try houses. Our cities and our dwellings have 
been our ancestral homes for only a few years. 
We do a great deal better. For one great titled 
(or otherwise distinguished) family, with an 
army of servants, and all the pride, pomp, and 
circumstance of hereditary country residence 
for hundreds of years, with not far away a 
shabby, tumble-down, fever-stricken village, we 
have in and about our fair city thousands of 
homes, each detached from its neighbor, and 
yet with the friendliest feeling toward its neigh- 
bor; each with a bit of individual grass or 
garden, and a roof and cellar, four walls and a 
veranda, all to itself. The city stretches miles 
away to the country, into which it melts imper- 
ceptibly, to give space for these homes and their 
environments. Many men have toiled hard, 
many women denied themselves much, to possess 
them. A flat may be a need and a convenience 
of a great city, but it can never be more than a 
substitute for an independent house. 

[29] 



The best expression of a house is: "We who 
dwell here are happy, clean, and good. We are 
happy and glad to be here." And sometimes 
this is added: "As we are happy here, as we 
are comfortable, clean, and good, we make you 
welcome to share these good things with us. 
Come in, and share with us. In fact, it is largely 
for you that we built it thus." 

There are some modest little houses that say : 
"We have but little, but you are welcome. Even 
at some small inconvenience to ourselves, be 
welcome." But the worst that can be said is 
(alas! that it should ever be said): "We are 
here and we mean to stay. We like it well 
enough for ourselves, but if you have any busi- 
ness with us, get it over and go, for there is 
little room and no welcome for any but our- 
selves." 

There are houses in our streets that, simply 
as houses, bear each of these messages in their 
outside brick and mortar, stone and wood, 
doors, windows, and garden walks. You feel it 
in every fiber before you have turned into the 
walk or put your hand on the door-bell. It does 
not depend upon elegance and cost or the lack 
of it. 

There was a charming expression of hospital- 
ity and welcome, we are told, in the houses of the 
Southern planters — a free and easy cordiality 
and lavish generosity. That is of the past, and 
it is suflBcient to say that the circumstances of 
those days made it easier to exercise a lavish 
hospitality than those of our own day. But we 
are speaking of houses — a Colonial house, new, 
but true. Now here is a real house. The kindly 
doors almost open of themselves, and in summer 
often do stand wide open. You cannot resist its 

[30] 



message of welcome. There is a wide square 
hall, a wide open grate or fireplace, and a great 
square staircase. If you go no farther, there is 
a gentle friendliness in that open fire, before 
which you pause for a moment. Those wide 
square turns of the staircase sweep upward 
with a wave of welcome. There are no hidden 
horrors of untidy bedrooms in the sweet seclu- 
sion of those fair chambers. There is warmth 
everywhere, light everywhere, fresh air every- 
where. The windows are large and clear. Per- 
haps the draperies are cheap, but they are cer- 
tainly clean. The chairs are of varied sizes and 
shapes, for all ages are welcome here. There is 
a friendly daemon doing our bidding in the 
cellar, which creates a climate of gentle summer 
throughout the house. There is no longer the 
excuse for bad housekeeping that it was "too 
cold to stay upstairs long enough to be very 
particular." It is as easy to keep house in winter 
as in summer. The warm bath is always ready, 
and a house so well planned in all its details is 
not hard to care for. There is not always an 
attic, but the modern idea is that what one 
family does not need or wish to use, another 
family does, and that moths are no assistance 
to our ideas of veneration. In the ground floor 
there may be, and should be, sliding doors be- 
tween the rooms, but the portieres secure space 
and ventilation. They may be beautiful and 
graceful, and they express candor and innocence, 
for who could be wicked or intriguing in rooms 
open as the day to the eyes and ears of all 
comers .^ It is a wonder that those who dwell in 
these lovely homes should ever be willing to 
leave them. They do leave them, but are very 
glad to get home again. 

[31] 



Fifty years ago it was very different. Homes 
are a very old-fashioned subject, and one may 
get a little prosy talking of them. A home at 
that time, within the meaning and the reach of 
average people of modest means, was a house 
of five or six rooms, of which the two front 
rooms in the front of the house — the parlor 
and front chamber, better furnished and ap- 
pointed than any others in the house — were 
solemnly set apart and closed to all but infre- 
quent, half-welcome, and wholly formal visitors. 
It cost a good deal to furnish these rooms. They 
were very neat, and were kept most scrupulously 
clean. At rare intervals a visitor was admitted 
to these dim glories. All parlors of that period 
had much in common, except, of course, the 
item of cost, which varied. They all had good 
carpets of bright and hopelessly permanent 
colors, a great square haircloth sofa, six mahog- 
any and haircloth chairs exactly alike, one or 
two rocking chairs to match, a center table, 
sometimes marble topped, containing a lamp 
hung with cut-glass prisms and standing upon 
a worsted-worked mat, the proud achievement 
of the young lady of the family. There were 
also two or three very brightly bound annuals, 
and often a big and handsome family Bible. 
On the mantelpiece (very high, and often 
beautiful) stood lamps or girandoles with prisms, 
or two flower jars exactly alike, but never all 
of them. In a handsome parlor the windows 
were hung with heavy damask curtains over 
lace, over holland shades, over tightly-closed 
windows, with closed and outside green shutters. 

This owl's paradise was slightly warmed by 
occasional opening of the door of communica- 
tion with the back room, of which more anon. 

[32] 



Sometimes, if there were young people in the 
family, there was a stove, or a grate, or a fire- 
place, but more frequently in cold weather fire 
was disused altogether. There were always some 
pictures on the walls, sometimes portraits, oftener 
engravings of some solemn and instructive sub- 
ject, often a death-bed scene of some excellent 
celebrity. 

The plainer parlors often possessed ornaments 
of wax flowers, hair wreaths (in memoriam), 
framed needlework, and even a silver-plated 
coffin plate framed upon a black velvet back- 
ground. It didn't make much difference, how- 
ever, for it was quite too dark to see anything 
clearly, if Raphaels or Titians had hung upon 
the walls. 

But somewhere in the house there was a room 
into which all that represented the daily life of 
the family was crowded. It was often in the 
basement, and served for dining-room, sitting- 
room, sewing-room, nursery, study, library. 
(Sometimes on a Monday night, after a rainy 
washing day, it filled a vacancy as a drying 
room.) Here sat grandmother with her snuff 
and her knitting, and grandfather with pipe and 
newspaper, and the sick child, and the busy 
mother; and here the children rushed in, glow- 
ing from school and snowballing. This room 
was not always well ventilated, seldom so, in 
fact ; not always dry or wholesome or roomy. 
Sometimes the members of the family got very 
cross with each other, not from lack of love, 
but lack of space and oxygen. But it served its 
purpose, whether front basement or back parlor, 
for it "kept things together and saved the farlor!" 
Saved it! — and for what.? A funeral, some- 
times several of them; perhaps a wedding, and 

[33] 



little else. In the evening, when the children 
had gone to bed, and the grandparents had dozed 
off into dreamland, and the hard-worked father 
read his paper and warmed his stockinged feet, 
in kindly but wearied-out silence, the good wife 
finished the mending, wound the clock, set back 
the chairs, put the light out, and all was silence 
after nine o'clock. With occasional breaks and 
slight variations, this was average local life fifty 
or sixty years ago. 

About that time a few — a very few — houses 
were built "double"; that is, the house was 
entered by a hall in the middle, and there were 
two front rooms, a survival of the colonial 
"mansion house." One of these rooms was, of 
course, the parlor. The other was spared for 
the sitting-room. A few of these families were 
blessed with small collections of standard books 
and neat bookcases, which at once dignified 
these rooms with the title of "Library." 

There was not much in these bookcases to 
tempt any but an omniverous reader. As yet, 
Dickens and Thackeray were only beginners. 
Longfellow, Whittier, Tennyson, Carlyle, Holmes, 
and many of our household friends were as yet 
unborn into literary life. There was no Atlantic, 
no Harper, no weeklies, no Century, no Scrib- 
ner. We had the Knickerbocker and Godey's 
Ladies' Book, and that was nearly all. Not that 
it mattered; one could get books (and we did) 
from the Public Library. Reading was the last 
thing we thought of doing in the library. Noth- 
ing but a three-days' snow storm or a sprained 
ankle reduced us to the domestic bookcase. 
There were only holland shades at the library 
windows, and it was light. There was an open 
fire, rocking chairs, a big table, and the freedom 

[34] 



of the family. It was a great step to be familiar 
with the back of books, and to learn that there 
were other books than the vivid annual and the 
big Bible for domestic reading and possession. 
On the whole, we all liked better to talk than 
to read. The kindly atmosphere of the room 
was in itself an education. Anybody could come 
in, even on a wet day. It was a court of the 
Gentiles separating the outside world from the 
inner glories of the closed and sacred parlor. 
Here one could write letters (make Christmas 
presents of fancy work, "secret, sweet, precious"), 
gossip with the girls, or chat with grandmother 
of blessed memory, while the darkened splendors 
of the parlor were left to the solemn feast of 
marriage or death. 

Of course, it was not important to have many 
such libraries. As a matter of fact, all the young 
people of the neighborhood gathered together 
wherever there was one, and other houses were 
quite deserted of an afternoon or evening, while 
the library of this or that neighbor was full of 
young people. 

In the course of time, there was a young girl 
with a bright idea. She was going to be married 
to what was then called "a likely young man," 
meaning a man in whose future there were 
excellent probabilities and possibilities. There 
was not much money on either side. Nobody 
expected it on the girl's side, so it was very well 
that she had her bright idea. There was a 
library in her father's house where most of the 
sweet hours of courtship had been spent. So, 
one Sunday evening in May, just before the 
wedding, Mary remarked to John, as they sat 
in the library: 

"John, I have about made up my mind 

[35] 



that I don't care about having a Parlor in our 
house." 

If Mary had remarked that she was fond of 
the toothache, or didn't care about going to 
heaven when she died, she could not have sur- 
prised John any more. He gasped out : 

"What are you going to do without one.?" 

"I am thinking we'll just have a Library. 
You see we never go into our parlor, and all 
the girls and boys come right in here, anyhow. 
Now we'll just make believe that the parlor is 
across the hall, and we'll have a bookcase with 
a desk" (they used to call them secretaries), 
*'and it will be convenient for you to write at. 
Then we'll have a good sized table. It need not 
be an expensive one, for we'll have a nice, large 
table spread. Then we will get some comfort- 
able chairs, if we can find them, and have an 
open fire, and on the table we'll keep our books 
and my work basket, and the back room will be 
our dining-room, and when meals are over we'll 
come in here to rest. The lamp will shine out 
into the street and show that we are at home 
if any one wants to come and see us, and we 
will be very comfortable if they don't. Then we 
will not have the dining-room crowded up with 
all sorts of things, and " 

"But we haven't got any books," remarked 
the practical John. 

"That doesn't make any difference. We have 
a few, and they'll come if we have a place for 
them. Besides, everybody puts green silk cur- 
tains in a bookcase, anyhow, so nobody will 
know the difference." 

So, of course, she carried her point, and they 
saved several hundreds of dollars, much wear 
and tear of mind, body and estate ; made them- 

[36] 



selves and their friends comfortable, and actually- 
lived in their own house, instead of just working, 
eating, and sleeping in it, being at all times their 
own much-honored guests. 

This idea of living, really living, in one's own 
house, has been helped greatly by the use of the 
furnace, that gentle descendant of the ancient 
hypocaust. By this means, all parts of the house 
are comfortable in all weathers, and a small 
house serves the purpose of a larger one, utilizing 
all parts of it. When properly built, it secures 
excellent ventilation, and prevents suffering from 
cold and draughty floors. "The only objection,'* 
says the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, "to 
the completely built and fitted house of to-day 
is that forlorn, wizened, and sickly children do 
not die out as once they did, but live and hinder 
the survival of the fittest." But if the sanitation 
is so complete, they will cease to be forlorn, 
wizened, and sickly, and grow strong and well 
and rosy. So, with great deference to that high 
authority, I demur. Next, a good thick carpet 
all over the floor and an open fire, purely for 
sentiment and ventilation. There is no com- 
forter like an open fire — no cheer, no sympathy 
like it. It ought to be compulsory that each 
house should have at least one fireplace. It 
doesn't matter much about the fuel — coal, logs, 
maple-wood, pine knots, driftwood, or gas jets. 
The cheerful blaze is what is wanted. But it 
will not do in this climate to dispense with the 
furnace. 

The furnace being built, acting satisfactorily, 
and an end made of shutting up any part of 
your house, people found out how easy it is to 
make one's friends welcome. The closed doors 
opened, and soft and rich portieres made divisions 

[37] 



instead of partitions. The tender half -tints of 
modern coloring came in with restful influence, 
and upon wall and carpet, drapery and furni- 
ture, were pleasant colors that did not dispute 
or chide each other. They did not "match"; 
they did better — they agreed. It became pos- 
sible to use a single vase or jar here and there. 
There were chairs for different ages, and the 
shape bore some reference to the curves of one's 
spinal column. The sofa invited one to sit down, 
and the heaps of pillows suited one's varying 
mood. China, which was not flower vases, nor 
yet dogs and shepherdesses, began to be found 
in drawing-rooms. Etchings and water colors, 
and, in some instances, paintings took the place 
of family portraits and celebrated death-beds. 
It was entirely too pretty to keep to one's self. 
It was easier to have company than not to have 
it. 

One afternoon, somewhere, somebody said, 
"Afternoon tea!" The idea caught like fire to 
tow. It was so simple! So pleasant! One could 
use beautiful, odd, old cups and saucers and 
teapots. It was not needful to have great num- 
bers of them all alike of stupid white china. 
One could dress as one pleased either to call or 
receive — so many pretty, original ideas were 
possible. One could give quite a numerous tea 
reception with only a boy at the door and one's 
own maid in the kitchen and a friend at the 
tea urn. One could do it often and go often, 
perhaps to several in one afternoon. Seeing one's 
pleasantest friends so often and so easily, made 
the feminine world more and more gracious 
toward each other. It suited the young ladies 
whose complexions would bear daylight well, 
and who wanted the evening for gayer enjoy- 

[38] 



ments. It suited the matrons who wished to be 
at home for the six o'clock dinner. It suited the 
old ladies and the delicate ones who could not 
bear night air. Those who drove liked to end 
with a tea, and so did those who walked, for a 
street dress was suitable; and it pleased the 
dressy ones, for they are always sure of their 
welcome everywhere. 

And so it was agreed unanimously to endorse 
"the afternoon tea." Everybody accepted, for 
most people like a crowd, whatever they may 
say against it. There were elegant brides, and 
dignified mothers with budding or blossoming 
daughters, gay young matrons, bright, cheery 
old maids, cheerful widows, and dear old ladies 
who seldom went out except to the houses of 
old friends. At first, gentlemen were not invited. 
Afterwards, the hostesses relented and some 
gentlemen accepted, but, as a rule, the after- 
noon tea of America was in feminine hands 
alone. 

It seemed as though the great social problem 
v*as solved. In the days of the haircloth sofa 
and the dark parlor, of the great evening party, 
with all its discomforts, and the mixture of "Mr. 
Dombey's set" and "Mrs. Dombey's set," the 
men had said (and the truth was on their side) 
that great parties were a bore, and when, for 
various reasons, chiefly the hunger for social life 
of some sort, their wives dragged them into these 
companies, the husbands stood about and sulked 
and voted the thing a bore. 

These great parties were given at long inter- 
vals in the few great houses that the town 
afforded. They were costly and dull, except to 
the young dancers — hopelessly dull. People who 
meet so rarely do not feel at ease with each other. 

[39] 



Let us draw a veil over the horrors of those 
evenings which contained a maximum of misery 
to a minimum of enjoyment, and for further 
particulars read in "Elsie Venner" the descrip- 
tion of "Col. Sprowle's party." 

When teas came in and Madame said, "I am 
going to Mrs. Blank's tea this afternoon," and 
added, "only ladies invited," after a season of 
real relief. Monsieur began to wonder about it 
a little, and to feel as if "Mr. Dombey's set" 
and "Mrs. Dombey's set" assimilated much 
better when represented only by a female con- 
stituency. They found out each other's good 
points and certain discordant elements were left 
out of the combination. They grew into genuine 
friendliness and good understanding under the 
genial influence of the social teacup. 

The Colonial dames brought out old silver 
teapots, and the daughters of the Revolution, 
who had safely hidden their precious teacups 
through the storms of the great Tea Party, 
brought them forth to tell their tales, and old 
families with brine in their blood showed real 
Chinese china, which had rounded the Cape in 
old ships, with leathery old captains in the last 
century but one, and the new family who had 
not the conservative salt in its veins bought new 
ones, just as good and far prettier, of the new 
wares and the choice patterns. The golden age 
blossomed again. It transformed alike the Colo- 
nial mansion, the Queen Anne cottage, and all 
the ugly intermediates, the stately stone resi- 
dence and the cottages (?) on the park and 
lake, and it did us one and all a world of good. 

Of course, there are dances for the young and 
drives for everybody, and dinners will always 
be the perfect flower of civilization, and lunch- 

[40] 



eons are almost as fine, and card parties will 
always exist for those who like them, and read- 
ings and lectures, etc., must be. But the after- 
noon tea, with its elastic possibilities, its endless 
opportunities, seems the solution of so many- 
difficult problems that the wonder of it is that 
it was not sooner devised. All other entertain- 
ments are, in the nature of space and oppor- 
tunities, limited — not so a tea. Portieres trans- 
form many rooms into one. Coming and going, 
all are not crowded together at once. There are 
so many advantages, that it is really too good 
to last. 

The simplest form is best — without music, 
which is an impertinence if you hear it, and a 
superfluity if you do not, without "readings, 
lectures, or talks." The simplest form of social 
visit is the best. The others are all good, but 
*' that's another story." It is the easy, graceful 
opportunity to meet and greet each other, to 
say something if you have it to say, and not be 
expected to say it if you have nothing to say, 
to be epigrammatic if you like, or friendly, 
which is best of all. 

This form of entertainment has done much 
for the social world. It has added an easy grace 
to the old-fashioned houses and helped make 
them habitable to a younger generation. It has 
helped the none-too-rich young housekeeper to 
feel that a beautiful social life was easily within 
her reach if only she had a welcome ready for 
her friends. It has done much to express the 
true pleasantness of American life in the close 
of this century, which dawned so darkly for the 
American Republic. 

Does it occur to any one how^ much better 
housekeeping we have now than we did years 

[41] 



ago? The work was well done then, but the 
housekeeper was worn out with it. The houses 
are better kept, the cooking is far better, and 
the table better arranged and served. That it is 
far prettier, speaks for itself. 

People are less selfish and more kindly than 
formerly, because they know each other better. 
They are better read and better talkers, and do 
not talk so much as they did years ago. They 
are better practical Christians, better nurses, 
better cooks. Thewomen, especially, are stronger, 
fairer, and healthier, and the days when the 
*' little woman" was the power in the land are 
of the past. It is not inevitable, nowadays, that 
a plain girl or woman is unattractive, for good 
health and dress have changed all that. Women 
are not yet perfect. They have much to learn. 
More consideration for those whose care and 
love and labor have provided them with these 
glorious privileges is among the virtues still to 
be attained. They could never have done all 
these beautiful things without help, without love 
and much self-sacrifice from the men who are 
their protectors. But much has been done, a 
nobler side of womanhood has developed. It has 
been shown that the want of sympathy with each 
other, of which women used to be so often 
accused, was, or at least is, a fallacy. It even 
goes too far the other way. And much of all 
this is from the houses they live in. 

It is a long way from the cave-dwellers to a 
Queen Anne cottage, but it is a straight line, a 
direct evolution. It is a long run from the Arab's 
salt to the Golden Rule, but a straight line, a 
direct evolution. The result of both is seen in 
our homes, our dwellings, the expressions of our 
houses and our streets. The stones cry aloud to 

[42] 



us with their messages. It is the second and 
greatest commandment, "Thou shalt love thy 
neighbor as thyself." 



[43] 



THE DUTY OF COMMON SENSE 

AN impression was borne in on my mind not 

/A^ long ago of the wonderful economic value 

■^ -^ of amiability and unselfishness, and others 

of the less reputable virtues, industry, economy, 

etc. 

A family consisting of mother and two un- 
married daughters and a married son and w^ife 
were forced to make two households for no 
other reason than "incompatibility of temper." 
The married pair, whose rights were undisputed ; 
the mother, whose rights were moral and senti- 
mental; and the sisters, who did something for 
a living and had no rights at all, only certain 
privileges, were all divided in feelings, opinions, 
etc. Neither party had enough to live upon 
separately in any sort of comfort, but the house 
was the son's. Had they been amiable and self- 
sacrificing, they could have lived together in 
comfort. But by no means would either division 
give up their own little tempers, although one 
moderate-sized dwelling ought certainly to ac- 
commodate five persons, if only a spirit of love 
and self-sacrifice and helpfulness prevailed. 

If only some one would decide. 

Madame must give up the habit of criticising 
the wife of her son, however much she deserves 
it. 

Daughters must give up the habit of finding 
fault with the sister-in-law, and the daughter-in- 
law must give up the habit of general fault- 
finding with the rest, and sisters must give up 
social rights and privileges in their brother's 
house. 

[44] 



So they separated, and suffered, and I wonder 
which way they would have suffered most. The 
house, so small for five, was rather large for one 
pair of hands to care for, and when the baby 
came it would have helped a great deal if the 
grandmother and sisters had been there to 
"help out." And the mother and daughters 
were a good deal cramped in room and purse, 
in the tiny domicile in which they could afford 
to live. And I do not know that either household 
was perfectly happy, either. .- 

A great light broke in upon me, and showed 
that whatever economic advantage was pos- 
sessed by amiability, renunciation, etc., there 
was much more to life than renunciation and 
close packing, and that the amiable and unself- 
ish ones were at an awful disadvantage before 
unreason and selfishness. 

Of course, it was very convenient and eco- 
nomical that Mary and Lucy should share the 
same room and nearly everything else. That 
Mary should nearly always have the new gown 
and help a little to make over the old one for 
Lucy. But when Kate and Caroline tackled the 
same problem it was different. It wasn't right 
for one to give up to others all the time. They 
just hated those dreadful old stories of John 

fiving up his girl because Tom wanted her, and 
ane giving up Tom because Mary wanted him. 
Why should little Betty almost live on the stairs 
because Eleanor was too busy or feeble or lazy 
to wait on herself .? Why should Tom give up 
his new suit for his sister's evening dress ? And 
why should Jane give up everything for John's 
benefit ? Why is there no justice in this world ? 
Well, there mostly isnt. That's all. But when 
justice is withheld, when the innocent suffer for 

[45] 



the guilty and stupid and, most of all, the incon- 
siderate, why isn't there an opening for Common 
Sense ? 

It isn't as impressive or magnificent a virtue 
as Renunciation, to be sure, but after all, Com- 
mon Sense is the Universal Solvent. 

Betty is quite willing to wait on Eleanor, but 
she needs her play, her lessons, and her rest; 
and most times Eleanor could wait on herself, if 
common sense (in the person of the mother) 
had taught her to do so. 

If the house is small and two or more must 
occupy the same room, let each one do her own 
share in keeping the room tidy and well aired. 
It isn't Common Sense for one to do all, or none, 
and we hold these truths to be self-evident. 

If there can be but one new gown, or even 
one good gown, in a family, why not sometimes 
buy two or more of a cheaper stuff, and all work 
jointly in making them up, sharing cheerfully, 
and not one have all or bear all ? 

As for the ennobling effects upon the mind of 
Renunciation and Self-denial, I am willing to 
go into court and swear to the souring effect of 
injustice (vvhich is sure to come in somewhere). 

One of Miss Edgeworth's stories tells of a 
benevolent young lady bestowing on a beggar 
a sum of money given to her by her father to 
buy a handsome dress for some very important 
occasion in which she was a conspicuous char- 
acter. One can fancy the mortification of the 
father to see his daughter appear in a shabby 
old gown, and he wasn't sustained by a high 
sense of self-denial as she was. I should be 
tempted to call it priggishness, myself, for such 
generosity is rarely confined to the actual giver. 
The money was not really hers, but given her 

[46] 



for a special purpose, and the giver of the money 
was the real sufferer, not the girl, who, after all, 
may have looked very well in the old gown, or 
thought she did, which was all the same to her. 

When you are going to make some great 
sacrifice of yourself, stop to think if some other 
person is not involved in it, equally, or even 
more than yourself — someone who has a right 
to be considered, someone entitled to the use of 
the universal solvent! 

To be sure, unselfishness is not so very com- 
mon a virtue, (or weakness,) and the self-sacri- 
ficing hero or heroine exists mostly in old-fash- 
ioned stories. But, then, is common sense so very 
common after all ? Or perhaps you like to call 
it Justice. 

But it is, after all, just common sense that is 
needed; just the plain, common variety, ripe 
and ready for plucking, or, perhaps, you prefer 
to call it Justice. It is like Jacques' melancholy, 
and is "compounded of many simples"; it 
requires information, proportion, promptness, 
fair-mindedness, and fair dealing to all. For the 
judicial mind is much rarer than the legal mind, 
which sees only the cause of the client; while 
Justice, i. e.. Common Sense, sees equally the 
good of all concerned. 

Let Common Sense take the chair and keep 
order in the meeting! 



[47] 



THINGS WHICH DO NOT "JUST 
HAPPEN" 

Good Parents and Christian Lives, 

Children, Good Neighbors, 

Good Housekeeping, Business and Professional 

Happy Marriages, Success. 

A ND yet people talk as if they were all a 
/A matter of course. It is true that in the 
•*' ^ merciful scheme of life all these good 
things are quite usual, and the average person 
attains, often, to many of them. But not one is 
attained without much labor and pain, much 
self-sacrifice and self-denial. "A fortuitous com- 
bination of atoms" cannot be depended upon 
to bring about the best results, even if the 
phrase did once express a ^reat philosopher's 
idea of the scheme of the creation of the Universe. 
Happy marriage is almost too delicate a sub- 
ject to touch upon in these days of high explo- 
sives — 

For Death is cheated, ofttimes by Divorce, 
A fact which gives an equivocal force 
To that beautiful phrase ' Forever ' ! " 

— Thomas Hood. 

But what happy and permanent marriage was 
ever the result of anything but the patient taking 
of great pains ? 

Love is good, but not enough. Wealth is good, 
but often fails. Social position is good, but is 
sometimes a snare to the heedless and indiscreet. 
And so of all good things — almost. But to 
most of these detriments, the taking of pains — 
to please others — and of cultivating one's own 

[48] 



sense of enjoyment, of avoiding all waste of 
happy opportunities of enjoyment, will neutralize 
the poison of egotism and selfishness which lies 
at the bottom of most troubles. 

Certainly good housekeeping does not come 
of itself, unless, for a brief and heavenly period, 
when things seem to go one's own way. Think- 
ing, planning, watching and not wasting, spend- 
ing and taking care of unconsidered trifles, until 
the final adjustment is so good that it seems 
automatic. All these are required in the manage- 
ment of a household, and even with the most 
faithful care the saving grace of charm and 
humor may be lacking and "the well-conducted 
household" be as dry and uninteresting and 
tasteless as a machine shop. And these do not 
come of themselves always, nor without effort. 

Doctor Holmes says that to produce a suc- 
cessful character one must begin with one's 
grandmother. Good, but difficult. But we may 
begin with our grandchildren's grandmother, 
and by self-culture and self-restraint produce 
good grandmothers to our possible grandchildren. 
Many of us know some charming old people. All 
of us know many charming young folks. And 
we cannot believe that these delightful, kind, 
sweet, and tender young people are going to 
degenerate into the dreadful old men and 
women that we sometimes see. They need not, 
and we hope that they will not. But it is going 
to take lots of pain and care and trouble all 
through life to produce this charming result. 
And maybe you cannot do it. 

The little pig with the curly tail 
And his satiny skin all pinky-pale, 
Is a very different thing by far 
To the lumps of iniquity big pigs are." 

[49] 



Christian lives do not grow into sweetness and 
holiness simply by joining a church and giving 
liberal checks to worthy objects, nor by giving 
out-of-season clothes to the worthy poor, nor 
even talking well in religious meetings, although 
these are all good things, but by "the snapping 
up of unconsidered trifles" of word, act, and 
lire which go to make this world fit to live in 
and the next world the abode of all that is good 
and pure. 

You may do all and more than is laid down 
in any law or gospel, and spoil it all in a moment 
by a sour look and wicked word, a cruel neglect. 
You may be a technical Christian, but if you 
are a disagreeable one, you are worse than a 
tinkling cymbal — if there is such a thing. 

What good children I have known! Too good 
for their own and their parents' good, spoiling 
the dear old people with their self-denial, and 
letting them grow into habits of self-indulgence, 
by looking on their care and love and sacrifice 
as a matter of course, and allowing them to 
waste youth and opportunity. It costs incalcu- 
lably to be such a good child {and it ought not 
to be allowed). 

When one hears of business or professional 
failures it is common to hear it said sometimes, 
"What bad luck So-and-So has!" Now, I do not 
underrate the mysterious element of chance. It 
may appear in the unpreventable form of "fire, 
famine, or pestilence, battle, murder, or sudden 
death." For the occurrence of these no man 
should be blamed, unless it is a form of negli- 
gence by which it appears ; but when untidiness 
and wastefulness, disorder, carelessness, extrava- 
gance, idleness, and bad habits make for the 
destruction of prosperity. 

[SO] 



I once knew a nice, little, old lady who faith- 
fully tried to earn a living by a little shop. But 
she never knew whether she had the goods 
desired; all the boxes and drawers and shelves 
were in all sorts of disorder. Goods were soiled 
by much searching and tossing about, and the 
poor creature was discouraged and ruined by no 
other means than her disorderly habits, for we 
all got tired of waiting while she hunted things 
up. So in all and greater shops, and all business 
— nothing succeeds automatically. 

"You are a good neighbor to me," said one 
to another. "I never had a better neighbor." 
"Yes, I know it," was the unexpected answer. 
"I meant to be. I knew it all the time." And, 
like every other good thing, it did not "just 
happen." 

For success in all things is, as Sir Joshua 
Reynolds defines genius, "A capacity for taking 
infinite pains." 



[sil 



A FEW OF THE BELIEFS AND PRAC- 
TICES OF THE SOCIETY OF 
FRIENDS, KNOWN AS 
QUAKERS 

Recalled from the Memory of the Talk of My Father, James Miller, 
of Buffalo (One of That Society), Who Died in 1877. 

My Dear Friend: 

YOU asked me to write down the main 
points of the religious behefs of the "So- 
ciety of Friends," commonly called Quak- 
ers. This is what I remember of the speech of 
my father, who was of that persuasion, and who 
died in 1877. Since then I have held no conver- 
sations with any one upon these subjects, and it 
is simply recalled from memory. To those who 
believe that all of the Friends' belief is com- 

Frised in a broad-brimmed hat or a drab gown, 
mention these few points of belief: 

First — They speak of their own society as 
the "Society of Friends," and of their places of 
worship as "Meeting-houses." "The church is 
built of up living members" and the name must 
not be perverted to speak of buildings, the work 
of men's hands. Their annual convention in 
Philadelphia is "The Yearly Meeting," as all 
others are "First day meetings," etc. 

Second — The names of the months and the 
days of the week are rejected as being those of 
Pagan gods and idols. They speak of "First, 
Second, Third, months, etc. ; First day. Second 
day,^{etc." I notice that accountants of late 
employ numbers instead of the elaborate names 
of months and days. 

[52] 



Third — Swearing of all sorts, even the judi- 
cial oath, is forbidden. As a witness, an "affirm- 
ation of the truth of which I am about to 
speak" is permitted. But it is also forbidden to 
a Friend to appear as a party in a lawsuit, and 
is strictly against the "discipline of the Meeting." 
Neither is violent language or conduct allowed, 
nor resistance to law, order, or even disorder. 

Fourth — They believe, above all, in a gospel 
of peace, love, and non-resistance to evil of 
law or oppression ("If one smite thee on one 
cheek, turn the other also," etc.). All sympathy 
of word, act, or thought in all that concerns war 
and strife, battles or military matters of any sort 
or kind, of aiding, abetting, or sympathy, is 
against discipline. 

Fifth — Concerning the ordinances, or sacra- 
ments — or ceremonies — peculiar views are 
held, and discipline enacted. Marriage is re- 
garded as a civil contract; the contracting 
parties take each other by the right hand, in 
the presence of two or more witnesses, and 
promise to live together faithfully and lovingly 
as man and wife. No wedding ring is used, and, 
although a certificate is allowed, it is not always 
given. The marriage is recorded in the book of 
the meeting and signed by witnesses. A good 
supper is provided, and that is about all there is 
to the marriage ceremony. It is essentially the 
form of the "civil marriage" — which is now 
practiced nearly all over the world, and the only 
marriage held legal everywhere, no matter what 
religious rites or beliefs prevail. I never heard 
divorce mentioned, although separation in ex- 
treme cases is allowed. (If people live together 
in the calm, loving, self-controlled fashion of 
the Friends, divorce ceases to be a prominent 

[53] 



question.) A form of marriage is often held 
before a justice, mayor, or other civil officer. 

Sixth — Marriage with those of a different 
belief is "contrary to discipline" and is pun- 
ished by expulsion from the Society, if it takes 
place. If only planned, it is a subject of reproof 
and remonstrance from the Elders. 

Seventh — Funerals are conducted with the 
greatest simplicity. Personally, I never saw one, 
but all show and pomp is forbidden. No monu- 
ments are permitted and even headstones are dis- 
couraged, and if allowed, contain only name and 
date. This is a protest against the pride and 
expense involved in such services. Mourning is 
never worn — "Our afflictions are sent in love 
and for one's spiritual benefit." Mourning is 
rebellion against the removal of the happy spirit 
and the love of the Father who doeth all thmgs 
well, even beyond all we can ask or seek. The 
symbol of the Lord's Supper is only recognized 
as a symbol in memory of Him, and is observed, 
if at all, in silence, meditation, and prayer, 
unless the Holy Spirit moves one to a message. 
It has been so perverted by a false doctrine that 
symbols are discouraged as leading to perversion. 

"The inward light," the gift and inspiration 
of the Holy Spirit, is always recognized as a 
sufficient guide of life. The religious meetings 
are conducted in silence and sobriety, and the 
meeting-place is of the severest plainness. Men 
and women sit apart. The men wear their hats, 
the women bonnets of their own peculiar shape. 
They meditate in silence and await a message 
of the Spirit. It may come by man or woman. 
I think that a man would remove his hat in 
giving it, if it came to him. A woman takes off 
her bonnet, lays it aside, while speaking in the 

[54] 



invariable muslin cap — '*A woman must not 
speak uncovered in the churches." The word 
** church" is always to be understood as referring 
to its living members, for the building is always 
called the "Meeting-house." A paid preacher is 
unheard of, but for those who have often mes- 
sages of the Holy Spirit to deliver, and who give 
up much time and comfort to do so, entertain- 
ment is provided. But almost always they have 
some regular employment or means of livelihood. 
The hour is spent in meditation, silence, and 
prayer, except for these so-inspired messages. 
When the hour is spent, the two eldest men in 
the meeting, who sit upon the front seats, rise 
and shake hands with each other, and then with 
the two seated nearest them. This is followed 
by a quiet, kindly, and general handshaking 
and a sweet and slow departure is made — 
"Like parting friends, who linger while they 
sever." If any strangers are present, they are 
greeted in a friendly way, and if unaccompanied 
by friends, they will be invited to dinner — 
maybe more than once. They may have five or 
six invitations before getting out of the house. 

Their poor members are most carefully pro- 
tected, but, if able to work, are not encouraged 
in idleness. They discourage almshouses, for 
"He setteth the solitary in families," and suit- 
able employment is provided when it is prac- 
ticable. I do not know about their hospitals, but 
doubtless they exist. In the days of the simple 
life, Friends were often called (and willingly 
responded) to nurse the sick, and to console 
and comfort the dying and sorrowful. 

What is called "the plain language" is the 
usual English of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
centuries of England and afterward of the colo- 

[55] 



nies. The "Thee and Thou" of the Quaker is 
the "Du" of the German and the "Tutoyer" 
of the French; as also the distinctive dress of 
the Friends was the form prevaihng in the days 
of the Stuarts, the somber colors and absence 
of all ornament being the Spirit's protest against 
the luxury, license, and extravagance of the court 
and aristocracy of that time. Their souls (like 
our own at times) were vexed with constant 
change, selfishness, and licentious living. Their 
whole lives were protests against all forms of 
pride, pomp, ceremonial show, and extravagance, 
and which are all contrary to the life and teach- 
ing of Christ, who was meek, humble, simple, 
and self-denying. 

Baptism is recognized as a spiritual gift, and 
not otherwise to be bestowed. The baptism of 
the Essential Spirit of God having taken place, 
the baptism of water is now superfluous and is 
liable (as being only a symbol) to perversion in 
its value and significance, and offering another 
opportunity for pomp, pride, and other diver- 
sions of the original meaning. This view is quite 
apart from any discussion of modes of baptism, 
as the Baptism of the Spirit is alone essential. 

The special seasons of feasting (as at Christ- 
mas) and of fasting and prayer (as at Lent, etc.) 
are not accepted. The date of Christmas is con- 
sidered doubtful, and the license — drunkenness 
and gluttony — of Christmas in the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centuries required a special pro- 
test, which was to utterly ignore all that in 
which Christmas differs from the other days. 
So also with Lent — "But ye, when ye fast, 
seem not unto men to fast." "Pray without 
ceasing." Live a godly, pious, temperate, and 
prayerful life at all times. What is good at one 

[56] 



time is good at all times. What is wrong or 
unwise at one time is so always. 

In some old Quaker families the plain lan- 
guage is used in the family almost as an endear- 
ment, of which indeed they were not lavish. 
This was customary with many, not Quakers, 
one hundred years ago and less. My grand- 
father, a priest of the Church of England, 
habitually used "thee and thou" to his wife, 
my grandmother, as an endearment. 

The transformation of the court gallants to 
the demure Quakers, by exclusion of color and 
ornament, was a safeguard to the life, soul, and 
purse of the Quaker. Music — an essential part 
of the pleasure of world's people — was strictly 
forbidden. Even lullabys were not encouraged. 
This seems strange, but was a part of the self- 
denial required. 

They were fond of flowers, gardens, lawns, 
trees, and of fruit and vegetable culture. Their 
tables were more than abundant, and cooking 
became a fine art, justified by their lavish hos- 
pitality. "First day" became thus a day of hard 
labor from the amount of visiting and good eat- 
ing encouraged among them. Also the delicacy 
of color and exquisite fineness of fabric, in time, 
perverted the plain dress to a real extravagance. 
Philadelphia is one of the gastronomical centers 
of the world. 

The more ornate forms of life and worship 
appeal most to the young, and the complications 
of forms and services to them, as to many of the 
older people, is counted as righteousness. The 
voice of priest, the pealing organ, and the song 
of praise, not to speak of robes and emblems, 
and days and hours of devotion, are spiritual 
helps to many, and whatever makes for right- 

[57] 



eousness is good. Only let us beware of taking 
shadow for substance; symbol for truth. The 
superfluities of religious services, as well as of 
social and public life, lose significance as life 
goes on. The religion of Friends is better 
adapted to the calm period of middle life and 
old age than to the "hot heart of youth." 

And youth must guide and advance the 
world. I am not preaching a Quaker sermon; 
only stating a few of their most prominent doc- 
trines. By their truth shall they stand or fall. 
After this it is hardly needed to say that all 
forms of worldly amusement, music, dancing, 
play-going, circuses and playing, and everything 
of the sort was strictly forbidden. 

The Friends were fond of good horses, kept 
them well, and did not race them or bet on 
anything. They often were fond of fishing, and 
were mighty men of the rod and line ; also good 
sailors and merchants and traders — and I have 
known them to go a-fishing even on First day, 
if other things favored the sport, inconsistent as 
it seemed. 

Politically, the Friends have always been 
identified with reform and advancement. Eliza- 
beth Fry, in her work with women prisoners of 
Newgate, opened the way to much needed 
reform in prisons, and in the penal code of 
England. 

From the first, they opposed slavery. They 
refused to use slave-grown cotton and sugar, 
and well knew where the free labor could be 
procured for its culture, and where the "free 
cotton" and sugar and rice could be bought. 
Many a Quaker went to jail for helping runaway 
slaves, and every Quaker residence was a station 
of the "Underground railroad." Female suffrage 

[58] 



has always had its advocates among them. 
Lucretia Mott, a famous preacher, took strong 
ground for it. Temperance and social purity 
have had vigorous advocacy among them. I 
lack details or names to give much information 
on these themes. Isaac Hopper was one of the 
earliest to move in those directions in Philadel- 
phia. Macaulay did his brilliant worst to blacken 
the character of William Penn, most prominent 
of Quakers, but later research shows that it was 
not our William at all, but a distant and disso- 
lute cousin of the same name. 

William Penn, son of the famous Admiral 
Penn, was intimate with court circles, their 
usages and faults. He was on terms of personal 
intimacy with Charles II., and, as young men, 
they were fond of each other, and took great 
liberties with each other. 

"Take off thy hat, friend William," said 
Charles, as the two young men were together 
in the king's chamber. 

"Not to an earthly king do I uncover, friend 
Charles," said William. 

"Then," said Charles, giving his own plumed 
hat a toss, "here goes mine then, for only one 
of us can wear a hat where I am." 

They were always good friends, although 
William would not take off his hat, nor Charles 
forsake his vices, and it was owing to Charles* 
graceful and impudent fashion of giving away 
that which did not belong to him that the woods 
of Penn became the property of William Penn, 
and the scene of that famous treaty with the 
Indians that was never broken. 

"Good Quakish, no tell lie," said Red Jacket 
to my father, long before I was born. 

I have only tested my memory in giving these 

[59] 



beliefs and practices of this most remarkable 
people. I have not spoken with one of that 
belief in many years. The good they did lives 
after them, and is incorporated in what is best 
in our government and our traditions. They 
suffered much for their ideas of truth. But it is 
hard to contradict much of their teachings and 
lives. They have finished most of their work 
and have caused others to help to do it. And 
as the fallen trees said to the wind in the clearing : 

"We have served! 
We have served." 



[60] 



THE OWL AND THE CHICKEN 

SAID the Plymouth Rock chicken, that juve- 
nile fowl, 
To his elderly uncle, the great barn-owl : 
"The sun is so bright and the barnyard so gay; 
Why do you stay shut up this bright summer 

Said the owl, with a wink and a vigorous sneeze, 
Which seized him at once from the hay-laden 

breeze, 
"It's all very fine, and it's perfectly true, 
That the sun shines bright, but I'm older than 

you. 
And if one cares the least little mite 
For preserving one's beauty, and keeping one's 

sight. 
Or of having a lot of genuine fun, 
He'll keep out of the reach of that glorious 

sun. 
When the light falls soft over treetop and field. 
And the charm of the evening makes nature to 

yield 
To the glamour of night, and the spirit of life 
Gains victory over the spirit of strife. 
Then I spread my soft wings and in silence I 

sail 
By the light of the moon, on the sweet summer 

_ gale. 
While the world lies below, and the breast of the 

deep 
Softly rises and falls, with the quiet of sleep. 
Then my eyes open w ide and I seek for my prey. 
The small creatures that hide from the dazzle 

of day; 

[61] 



The mice that come out to nibble the wheat, 
Or the night-bird, hungry, his supper to eat. 
There's no joy by day like the hunt by night, 
And no sport in the sun like my midnight flight." 
"Oh! how charming is this!" clucked the silly 

chick. 
As he scratched up a worm, and swallowed him 

quick ; 
"I often feel that I'm smothered quite 
In the feathers soft of my mother at night; 
It's ever so nice to sleep under a bush 
On a hot afternoon, far away from the rush 
And the chatter and clatter of all other things. 
And sleep when not even the grasshopper sings; 
But to float on wide wings in the evening sky, 
And sup on the moths that by twilight fly ! 
I'll try it some night, when my mother's at rest. 
And put the truth of these tales to the test." 
He had eaten the seeds of the pepper, so gay. 
It affected his head in a singular way. 
And there came no sleep to his restless eye. 
When the spirit of mischief, wild and sly. 
Came into his head, and his silly brain 
Was turned by the murmur of summer rain. 
So he slipped from the nest so slyly and quick, 
And was not missed from the brood of chicks. 
It was very dark, but the rain had stopped, 
And out in the barnyard the chicken popped ; 
And he spread his frail wings and tried to fly. 
When a rustling of plumage came soft from the 

sky; 
And he rose in his flight through the evening 

light. 
In the clasp of a claw that was hard and tight. 
And he only stopped in the owl's dark nest. 
Where his young ones dwelt — you know the 

rest. 

[62] 



MORAL 

If you are a chick and your wings are frail. 

Don't list to the owl's attractive tale. 

Your wings are weak and your strength is small, 

And your power of flight is just nothing at all. 

To enjoy the fun one must be an owl, 

And not a poor little biddy-fowl. 

At the feast they invite you ; your only share 

Is a corner dark, as an inside fare. 

Those midnight joys come only to owls. 

And not to common and foolish fowls. 

And the only safe place for a chicken to stay 

Is the nest by night and the yard by day. 



[63] 



ON THE PASSING OF TENDERNESS 

IN the repression of expression lurks danger 
of the death of real feeling. Not in all na- 
tures, for with some "one gains in intention 
what one loses in extension." But in most — 
that is, the average individual (who is chiefly 
referred to) — expression encourages and devel- 
ops feeling. It is not easy to those of English 
blood to give utterance to feelings, even of the 
most genuine and intense kind. Therefore, a 
little encouragement along those lines is a very 
good thing. 

One of the deplorable consequences of scien- 
tific progress is the fad which forbids caresses 
or kisses to little children and to lovers. Of 
course, lovers will probably take care of the 
matter for themselves, but little children (al- 
though something is to be said on the other 
side) suffer for the lack of daily and hourly 
tenderness. I quite understand that it should be 
forbidden to allow strangers to kiss babies or to 
meddle with them in any way. Of course, in 
the caresses of an invalid there is often a real 
danger. But with reasonable precaution, and 
outside these conditions, the friendly and loving 
caresses of a family are a heaven-sent blessing. 
It compensates for so much that may be denied. 
It rewards one for suffering. It encourages per- 
sonal habits of delicacy and purity. In fact, I 
don't see how a family can otherwise be properly 
brought up. 

"Supposing," as the children say, your baby 
is bathed and dressed in its soft little nightgown, 
and the little white bed is ready, just how are 

[64] 



you going to help yourself and hinder yourself 
from good-night hugs and kisses ? Also the phy- 
sicians and nurses forbid any attention to the 
child after it has gone to bed. Some of us re- 
member the horrors of loneliness and imagination 
which comes to a child alone in the dark, "ere 
slumber's chain hath bound one." 

Just a few minutes — just a loving caress — 
just a lullaby — just a doll to hug — just a story, 
maybe only the beginning of it — just a warm 
wrap-up, or a tuck-up — and then sweet sleep ! 
How much sweeter, no one but a lonely child 
itself can tell. It makes all the difference in the 
world. 

The practice of putting a child down to sleep 
and leaving it alone is not so bad, in itself, be- 
sides being a convenience and a blessing to the 
family. But to let it lie alone, crying and wailing 
in helpless misery, to worry out the hour as- 
signed to sleep (?) is outrageous cruelty, if all 
the nurses and doctors in Christendom said to 
the contrary. A child has no speech. Its cry is 
its only signal of distress or need. No child finds 
it amusing. It needs something, when it cries 
long and persistently. It is the business of the 
nurse or mother to find out that need, and to 
supply the lack which the baby knows much 
better than any one else, and would tell you if 
it could. 

I knew a dear child nearly parboiled to death, 
because the nurse allowed and compelled her to 
"cry it out" until the allotted hour has passed, 
and then found the baby lying in a pool of 
scalding water from a bursted hot-water bag 
lying in the cradle. 

And another (more than one, too), which, 
being a "good" baby, did not cry, but slept and 

[65] 



slept and slept, till the weak little heart stopped 
its weary task — children with weak hearts do 
so occasionally. 

"The formation of good habits" is a sort of 
slogan among that sort of nurse and mother. 
How long does the best of habits endure in a 
baby? They must vary with every growth and 
development, frequently and constantly. 

A certain regularity in feeding, sleeping, etc., 
is desirable, of course, but the rapid growth and 
development requires constant watching and 
care. I knew a well-intentioned young mother 
to nearly starve her baby to death. The doctor 
had ordered half a pint of food a day at a certain 
period of growth. But she faithfully kept the 
child on a half pint a day for three months, 
spite of the demands of the child for more, and 
horrified the doctor by asserting that she was 
acting on "strict orders given three months ago 
by himself." 

Well, all this only shows the need of common 
sense, and it also shows the need of tenderness 
and loving watchfulness. "Wise saws" are all 
very well, but "modern instances" and their 
application are also needed greatly. 

When one remembers the millions of babies 
who are brought up on "bread and cheese and 
kisses," and often little besides, one cannot 
doubt that petting and cream make a pretty 
good diet after all, and that even kisses are not 
wholly pernicious. 

Great danger to tenderness of heart lies in 
the doctrine of the "New Thought," or the 
"Christian Science," and the "Mind Cure," or 
whatever name it may be called. It is most stul- 
tifying to emotion of pity and love, if one be- 
lieves the suffering to be unreal. How can they 

[66] 



pity pain which does not exist? Why should 
men and women try to relieve a fictitious agony ? 
To what end should anaesthetics lend aid in 
surgery if this were true? 

A disease which imagination creates may be 
cured by imagination, not otherwise. Self-control 
prevents the complaint from annoying others, 
and the sufferer from being a nuisance to his 
neighbors, but it does not spare him one pang. 

Hypnotism influences pain, but pain exists — 
the one incontrovertible fact in the whole cre- 
ation. 

Pain has its uses and its values. It is the 
danger signal and cries out for help. It exists. 
It often stimulates the finer qualities of mind 
and soul. "One learns in suffering what is 
taught in song." 

Beda, the Venerable, knew that he was dying. 
He had set himself the task of translating into 
the vernacular English the Latin gospel of St. 
John. Through his mortal agony, and stimu- 
lated by it, he wrote till his pen dropped, and 
he could only dictate to the faithful scribe who 
wrote constantly, and with the last words: 

"This is the disciple which testifies of these 
things, and we know that his testimony is true," 
his stainless soul departed, and the glorious gos- 
pel belonged to the English-speaking people. 
This was no miracle. His pain cried out greatly 
and he used grandly all the strength he had, and 
bore his pain, doing his Lord's will. But the 
pain was real, and not a morbid mental attitude. 

But if that scribe had said constantly: "Mas- 
ter, you do not suffer, you have no pain. Put 
aside the thought of it." What hardness of heart 
would have gripped and held that young writer ? 

The habit of resignation to the pain of other 

[67] 



people may be carried too far. So far, indeed, as 
to feel a growing habit of impatience with the 
sufferers themselves. From that habit of impa- 
tience with the inconvenience of age and suffer- 
ing, to the cool discussion of the advisability of 
shortening that period, and the wisdom of allow- 
ing science to pass upon the ending of that 
period by harmless anaesthesia is a very short 
step. Granting that, with our weak vision, we 
feel that it may be wise and kind to shorten the 
visible suffering of our beloveds in their appar- 
ently last hours, who, that knows the fallability 
of human judgment, the sad deceitfulness of the 
human heart, dares to trust to mere man, the 
decision as to when the progress and painful 
character of the illness justifies the kindness of 
anaesthesia ? 

That such cases exist, perhaps, is true, but 
who shall be trusted with the Key to the Eternal 
Peace ? 

"Oh! loving Mother Ganges! to thy care we 
leave him!" is the ascription of the tender- 
hearted pagan who buries his living but aged 
parent in its sacred mud, in the sight of the 
crocodiles. 

Shall not Christian men and women shudder 
at the thought, and, instead of hastening the 
end, comfort the declining hours to the best of 
their ability, and thereby obtain the blessing of 
"him who was ready to perish.?" 

This is the view that the law takes. *'Life is 
the privilege of all, unless forfeit to the law for 
crimes." The law protects the first and last 
hours of life, the helpless beginning and the 
hour of death, when the terrible temptation 
arises to shorten them. 

There is none too much visible tenderness in 

[68] 



the world. Do not let enlightenment or fads 
come between loving hearts. The real Love 
Spirit in the world grows. Let its exhibition 
help to brighten the dark days. The welcome of 
the new-born baby helps to brighten all its days. 
Perhaps the baby does not know it, but the 
mother does, and it leaves its impress forever 
on her heart. 

It is the privilege of women — American 
women — to receive a world of loving attention 
from the men who love them. It is also their 
privilege to respond. Once in a while, I think, 
it is not graciously done. The noblest study of 
woman is man — mere man, and his needs, 
which a good many put aside, and a good man 
is apt to put aside himself and ignore himself 
to serve his family more effectually. 

"Evil is wrought by want of thought," and 
sooner or later it appears. It is here that com- 
mon sense steps in to the help of love and tender- 
ness, and all must assist or the service loses its 
flavor. For, when too much is asked of an al- 
ready wearied body and soul, sooner or later it 
gives out and the world wonders why. 

Selfishness and unselfishness are not confined 
to sex, although manifestations in each sex differ. 
If a man does a thing, good or bad, he is most 
likely to do it alone, asking neither help, sym- 
pathy, or approval. It is narrow, but it is his 
way. A woman, whether selfish or otherwise, 
needs help. If a man helps some one in distress, 
he puts his hand in his own pocket, and gives 
up his own time and strength and money. In 
time he comes to organization, but it is not his 
original plan. A woman soon finds that she has 
not the money, strength, time, or influence to do 
very much without help, so when "A sees B in 

[69] 



trouble, she asks C to help her" and does not 
consider that D and E, and the rest of the alpha- 
bet are all involved and suffer. H and J have 
no uplift, and feel bitterly the sacrifice imposed 
on them. These are cases where an enlightened 
organization is needed, and the personal note is 
often omitted. But between the members of the 
family it is personal, and the stranger inter- 
meddles only to their detriment. There is only 
one John and Mary in a married pair, and each 
heart should know its own needs and its own 
love, and should especially consider only each 
other and the children that God has given them. 
And the fewer experiments that are tried to test 
the affection and character and resistance of 
each, the better, and the more perfect love, faith, 
confidence, and tenderness prevails, the wiser 
and happier the lives, even to the end of long, 
perhaps very long, life. 



[70] 



THE FAIRY TALES OF SCIENCE 

NEVER since the days of the earliest youth 
of the muses has there been written so 
little of rhyme, metre, or rhythm, when 
sweet thoughts of love and the heroic act of 
man is so released from the worrying harness 
imposed upon its Pegasus. Never was atmos- 
phere of any period so filled with soul poetry. 

Never has the greatest love been so fully 
expressed, when many men lay down their lives 
for their friends, even for their enemies. 

At this moment the great procession of fully 
armed and equipped battle ships of one of the 
earth's greatest naval powers is passing through 
the great Suez Canal, itself a triumph of recent 
years, completing a peaceful and fraternal girdle 
of a world, all at peace with its neighbors. There 
is a message for the ships to hasten on their way. 
To a festival ? Not so. To the help of a nation, 
prostrate under the earthquake's heavy hand. 
Pausing only for its message, the fleet hastens 
with all its ample stores and equipment, its clear 
brains and sturdy arms. It meets its own sup- 
ply ship, the huge " Celtic," loaded, with rush- 
ing speed and working overtime. All done in 
forty-eight hours. For a feast ? To meet deserved 
congratulations ? No ! For a free gift to the sur- 
vivors of that most awful of earthly calamities, 
the earthquake of Messina, which swept out two 
cities into the choking straits between Sicily and 
Italy. A calamity which sent the king and queen 
of Italy into the wreck and ruin, if, perchance, 
they could (as they did !) help that desolate land 
and people to a chance for life. 

[71] 



When the wounded and dying were carried 
into the great halls of the Vatican, that the Pope 
might, in person, bless and help them, where 
was written a grander poem than that comprised 
in these few statements, these few sentences! 

In the old warlike days, before our Saviour 
taught the blessed lesson of Love to one's 
neighbors, how quickly would those war ships, 
Levantine pirate or savage Viking, have de- 
scended on those stricken shores, plundering 
treasures and subduing all survivors to slavery 
and subjection and captivity! 

Punch shows it in "The Recent Bombardment 
of Messina" where boxes, bales, crates, and 
barrels are flying ashore from the guns and 
mortars of the war ships. Has it occurred to 
you that the world is at peace, and intends to he? 

We read in the "Arabian Knights" of the 
queer horse with a peg in his neck, and when 
you turned the peg up you went in the air, and 
away you went for miles and miles "strange 
countries for to see," and back again before 
morning if you so wished — and the magic car- 
pet which was much the same thing. But over 
your coffee, you see in the morning paper the 
cold-blooded advertisement of the "Aerial Ship 
Company," "Direct Route from Boston to 
Washington." 

Over the fleecy clouds we go ! " 

It makes dull prose of Grimm's lovely swan 
story, and the song of the Morning Stars was 
not more far-reaching than the mysterious voice- 
less whispers of Marconi's marvelous device, or 
"the sound of a voice that is dead," from the 
magical Victor. 

But most wondrous of all is the mystical 
bracelet of the "Soul Machine" of Doctor Peter- 

[72] 



son of New York. When it is clasped on the 
wrist of the lying witness, and the lie leaps forth 
in a tongue of flame upon the blank record 
before him, the Recording Angel puts his pen 
behind his ear and whispers, "I ought to have 
thought of that! These mortals are infringing 
on my patent!" 

Homer, in an atmosphere charged with poems 
of all ages, pervaded with deities, gods, and 
demi-gods, never suggested so poetical an 
idea! 

And yet it is the every-day life of this prosaic 
nineteenth and twentieth centuries! And they 
call the twentieth century a period of prose 
because there is no song from the poets! The 
Singers of the grove are silent. 

The great telescopes are watching Mars, its 
so-called canals, its changes and suggestions 
more or less of atmosphere, and of likenesses to 
our own planet. They all but meditate excur- 
sions to the Red Planet. They are all but per- 
suaded that the Martians wink at them. 

Who can fit a rhyme to such thoughts ? It is 
too vast an idea to chain to a measure. The 
music of the Morning Stars silences mortal 
music. 

Thus far had I written when the silent, view- 
less, wireless, sea-borne message called out of 
the darkness and fog of the North Atlantic the 
cry from the sinking "Republic"; the death 
call of the great liner. Over the freezing waters 
it sped ! Boston heard and all Nantucket shores 
and ships responded and the outward-bound 
steamers turned back. The fog was full of the 
voices of ships — not one, but many ; and be- 
fore the misty dawn had come or the cruel fog 
had lifted, all were saved, safe — and from the 

[73] 



last spar of the sinking ship the captain sprung 
into the boiHng sea and was saved, too. 

There were, it is said, no hysterics, no screams, 
no selfishness, and the brave and uncomplaining 
passengers and the brave and fearless crew 
passed in the thick fog and darkness from the 
broken and maimed liner to the life-boats, 
women first, according to the stern and tender 
law of the An^lo-Saxon race, which prefers the 
weaker. No wild cries of fear and despair. 

The steward, faithful to needs of suffering 
passengers and watchful and faithful to needs 
of the brave and cool operator sending, in cease- 
less calls, for help into the fog and darkness. 

There was not wanting the sense of humor so 
strong in Americans, which helped to see the 
grotesque, and lift the awfully tragical pressure 
of the situation. 

The heroic captain and telegrapher would not 
even let themselves be made heroes, when the 
men ashore would have carried them on their 
shoulders, but escaped and hid — in a bath. 

This also is poetry! 

But the pace is too strong for the mincing 
trot or gallop of rhyme and rhythm. 

The breath of the whirlwind proclaims it, 
and the wings of the morning are left behind in 
swift flash of the electric spark. 



[74] 



THE BY-PRODUCTS OF CHARITY 

THE by-products of chemistry are such 
agents as may be revealed in a search for 
certain definite substances, as when smelt- 
ing silver, lead is discovered, or silver in the 
melting of lead ore. 

In distilling or refining coal-oil or naphtha, 
many chemical substances of great value in 
medicine or the arts reveal themselves; some- 
times they have proved of much greater impor- 
tance than the objects of the original experiment. 
Radium was (so-called) accidentally discov- 
ered. 

Sometimes such results are attained by works 
of charity (so-called) which, undertaken solely 
for the benefit of others, result in most valuable 
rewards in the development of personal char- 
acter in the doers of these good deeds. For ex- 
ample: A corporate body is formed for one 
single specific purpose, say, the care of aged 
women or of orphan children. It has a presi- 
dent, vice-president, secretary, and treasurer, 
sundry managers and committees, such as is 
common to all organized charity work. None of 
the men or women have had much experience 
in this special business. It was needed work and 
they have gone into it in singleness of heart, 
solely to relieve want and sorrow. 

But it is by no means a simple affair. If it 
were the management of the poor-house it 
might be, for "Mr. and Mrs. Bumble" do not 
permit any complications. The paupers have so 
much (or so little) to eat and drink and wear. 
The county pays for it, and that is all there is to 

[75] 



it. It may be relief work. It is certainly not 
charity. 

But our friends have determined to really 
understand what they are doing, so they listen 
patiently to dull, sad stories, common enough, 
but all important to the actors and the sufferers. 
It takes patience, reticence, and sympathy. One 
is persuaded that each experience is unique. 
Never any one suffered as these are suffering. 

When patience has had her perfect work in 
listening, one goes to work to care for these 
needy ones. One gives them of one's substance, 
of one's goods, one's time and strength. Temper 
is repressed, and kindness begins to blossom as 
the rose. Some of these managers are plain, 
quiet people, but soon their outlook widens. 
Some had the impression of utter selfishness and 
greed among the poor. Further acquaintance 
shows how good they often are to each other, 
how unselfish, often so self-denying. 

One learns so much by being a manager of 
such a work. There is but little money and it 
must be managed most carefully, and by self- 
denial, eked out to much greater efficiency. 
There is more to do than to magnificently "draw 
a check." One must often go into chests and 
storeroom, attic, and cellar. Sometimes you 
doubt which needs it most, you or they, and 
inward grace gives the answer. One even learns 
much of our forgotten arithmetic by planning 
for these needs. 

In the committee meetings there is much to 
be learned. All have equal rights to courtesy, 
attention, and interest, and before one knows it 
one is educated, not only in politeness but 
etiquette. 

The housekeeping of such an establishment is 

[76] 



under constant and public inspection. No hiding 
holes are permitted. "The house was in its usual 
good order," is the constant report, and such 
usual good order does not "just happen so." 

It means constant and exact planning, con- 
stant, laborious care and cleaning, and other 
happy faculties of order. This public crystalliza- 
tion of private practices of good housekeeping is 
a constant education of the members of the 
board. For, while no one knows everything, 
every one knows something, and good ideas are 
brought forth and discussed in the weekly exec- 
utive meetings, as it might be in a convention of 
one of the learned professions. 

Thus is developed good housekeeping, good 
management, and often good taste. 

These poor wards of ours, some feeble little 
children, some frail old folks, many ignorant; 
all needing, like little children, the same sweet- 
ness and patience to manage them. The prime 
object of the work is the comfort and happiness 
of your needy wards. And you become the better 
parents to your own children because of your 
work among them. And maybe better children 
to your own aged parents. 

Men and women, especially women, come to 
understand each other in a corporate body more 
than in any other way, and if they are any sort 
of good people they grow to respect each other, 
and to work together, each according to her 
special gifts, as the years go on, and they often 
love each other with a love that is past under- 
standing. Friendships grow up between them. 
They love their poor friends, but they greatly 
love their associates in charitable work. 

Lives thus lived take on a polish in manners, 
a courtesy and a consideration for each other 

[77] 



not to be acquired in any social life outside of 
this. Many who take up such work, even from 
ennui, find their lives so full of the sadness of 
wisdom, the sweetness of love, that never again 
are there to them idle days or dull hours. 

Thus far I have spoken only of organized 
charity and its effect upon hitherto unformed 
character, as well as the effects of continued 
well-doing upon long lives and constant asso- 
ciation with those of kindred feelings, work, and 
opinions. 

But for the precious work with the "ninety 
and nine which went not astray" the real prepa- 
ration must be complete before much can be 
accomplished. One must be ready in the begin- 
ning. Like poets, such are born, not made, or 
the time and chance are wasted. It must be 
learned, if at all, at the mother's knee, at the 
home and the table. 

Many, good in these ways, are not good in 
public charity. The poor, or the suffering, or the 
needy but utterly blameless one, is timid, often 
proud and very sensitive, needing the most deli- 
cate touch and the wisest tact to do anything to 
a really good result. Your reward is paid in ad- 
vance. Only a lady, in the finest and best sense, 
is ready for such deeds. Painful truths must 
often be ignored or softly handled. Especially in 
giving, there is no need to make these trying 
facts conspicuous. 

"Why have I such good friends ?" said one of 
these to me. "I can do nothing for them." 

"But if I really needed help and you could 
help me, you'd do it, wouldn't you.?" 

Oh, indeed I would. Indeed I would." 

"Well, then, let's play that it is that way, and 
that you are doing it to me. Now, how would 

[78] 



you like to do it ? I'm sure that yours would be 
the best way.'* 

And so it was, and so I learned how, for in 
such ways one finds that love, and only love, 
"is the fulfillment of the law." 



[79] 



CONCERNING THE DUTIES, OBLIGA- 
TIONS AND PRIVILEGES OF 
OTHERS 

IT is required of us that we act unto others 
as we desire them to act toward us. This is 
sufficient. It is not required that we do for 
them things we never dreamed of them doing 
for us. If we do this, it should be counted unto 
us as righteousness, not a social obligation. We 
hear so much of "our duty to others" that it 
grows to seem as if we were swallowed up in 
such obligations to outsiders to the annihilation 
of all individual claims, rights, or desires. 

It is quite time someone spoke on the other 
side. It is time that "others" were a little en- 
lightened concerning their own obligations. It 
may be more blessed to give than to receive, but 
the other man should also have his chance at 
the blessing. 

In nearly every large family, and many small 
ones, there is one — possibly two, but rarely — 
who, by common consent, gives up self, time, 
and often much more precious belongings, from 
a sense that these others have a claim on every- 
thing they possess, and that it should be given 
up without a murmur to these vampires — and 
it really grows to be vampirism if not checked 
in time. Wise parents check this injustice toward 
one of their children, but all parents are not 
wise, and, strange to say, all parents are not 
good or kind to their children, and one of them 
is the drudge of the rest. Sometimes it is "the 
other way about" and the parents are the exact- 
ing ones. I am not now speaking of those who, 

[80] 



by reason of great age or great infirmity, require 
great sacrifices, and accept them without thought. 
By that time it is too late to say one word, for 
one must do one's duty in that sphere of fife to 
which one is called with what patience and 
sweetness and love one can summon. I mean in 
youth, and middle age, and elderly years before 
the mould of character is so hopelessly set as to 
be beyond all chance of modification. 

It should not always be the same one who is 
elected to stay at home from the tempting treat 
that the rest may go. Let the "others" take 
their turn as well. The one who takes the odd 
stitches, gives up the daily paper or the new 
book, lends her new gloves and neckwear, should 
not always be the same one. 

'*I have brought up a large family," said one 
mother. "All are happily married but the young- 
est. I intend to keep her at home for myself. I 
have given up enough; one is my right." So the 
one, who was best of all calculated to enjoy a 
home, gave up all, and when the mother — a 
loving and good mother, too — was taken home, 
there was no home but that of the other sisters, 
no children but theirs, welcoming and loving, it 
is true — but not her own. 

"Now your girls are all married but Susy," 
said the neighbor to another mother, "you'll not 
let her go; you'll keep her for your own old 
age." "Susy has as good a right to a husband 
and home as her sisters," said this mother, "and 
if she marries I shall have another son." And 
so she did, and sons and daughters all loved 
and cared for her, and in the future called her 
blessed. 

With the passing of the law of primogeniture 
from this country was born the possibility of 

[81] 



justice to all one's children — and in every way, 
besides the tenure of property. 

It is not only the family — far from it — 
where the tyranny of "others" is felt. If one is 
willing to do a difficult or unpleasant thing, be 
sure that they may do it, unless they have the 
courage to be disagreeable and refuse outright, 
which is not always easy or pleasant. 

Equal rights are conceded. It is equal privi- 
lege which is disputed. Nay, "others' even feel 
that these unreasonable exactions are privileges, 
and well-paved roads to heaven in the bargain. 
One remembers that story of Dickens (I forget 
its name) where a little boy was crushed under 
the weight of a "Moloch of a baby." Poor little 
fellow! Let us hope that when Moloch grew 
bigger he was loving and just to his tiny nurse. 

I just throw out these suggestions to those 
who forget the rights and privileges of "others," 
and give up more of themselves than they really 
possess the right to dispose of. A wise and dis- 
criminating selfishness is good for one's soul — 
also the souls of others. It prevents them from 
growing too selfish. In the social republic, equal 
rights and equal privileges, equal courtesies and 
equal self-denials, are the privileges of each and 
all, and some day some well-bred Spartacus will 
raise the standard of protest and revolt, and 
politely, kindly, and generously insist upon the 
rights of all as well as those of others. 



[82] 



THE DOLL'S BOOTH 

MISS POLLY DOLLY ADALINE is 
going to the Fair; 
She wants to see the minister and all the 

ladies there. 
She isn't very big and she isn't very wise, 
But she has a pretty frock and bonny bright 

blue eyes, 
And gentle rosy cheeks and yellow curling hair; 
So Polly Dolly Adaline is going to the Fair. 
She's coming in good season and she'll have a 

lovely time — 
I'm going to tell the reason, in rather halting 

rhyme. 
For Polly Dolly Adaline is silent and discreet, 
The same in joy or sorrow, submissive, too, and 

sweet ; 
Though she hasn't any feelings, and but a saw- 
dust heart. 
She's truer far than any, and many times as 

smart ; 
And she never hurts her friends nor turns upon 

her foe; 
She never makes complaints wherever she may 

go- 
She's going to try to help us, and do her little 

share. 
So Polly Dolly Adaline is going to the Fair. 

SISTER MAY, THE NURSE 

This brings to favoring notice the good nurse, 
"Sister May." 

Who offers kindly service to help our Fair to- 
day, 

[83] 



She does not tattle gossip from neighboring house 

to house, 
Nor yet disturbs your slumbers, for she is quiet 

as a mouse. 
She doesn't spill the broth, if she brings it to 

your bed; 
She doesn't drop the dishes, nor hurt your aching 

head; 
She hasn't any of the faults of any nurse you 

know. 
Although, in all her motions, I can't deny she's 

slow. 
But her^costume's quite correct, her habits clean 

and neat; 
You know just where to find her, her disposi- 
tion's sweet. 
She does her little duty all the long and weary 
\ day. 

And never tries to shirk her work, this doll, 

sweet Sister May. 
I can truly recommend her wherever she may go. 
We're glad to hear she's doing well, signed her 

patron — Mrs. Snow. 



[84] 



CONCERNING PAINLESS CHARITY 

MOST of us remember the mythological 
story of Atlas who was condemned to 
carry the world on his shoulders. The 
burden was grievous and Atlas crushed to his 
knees. He almost went on all fours and his 
writhing produced the earthquake and his groans 
the thunder and rumble of the earthquake pains. 

Most of us carry our share of this world's load 
in this fashion. But Elihu Vedder painted a new 
Atlas, who, brave, strong, and joyous, stood 
upright and bore his load lightly upon the palms 
of his uplifted hands, high above his head. 

The sight of that picture was an inspiration. 
If one only could — still one can try, and once 
uplifted, the load grows lighter, and blessed is 
he who thus overcomes the world. 

We often bind heavy burdens, and grievous 
to be borne, and lay them upon other men's (and 
women's) shoulders. We can always think of 
something that "the other fellow" ought to do, 
which is comparatively harmless except to our- 
selves. The objectionable part is, that when we 
really have the assignment of work, or duty, or 
obligation to others, we exercise so little dis- 
crimination in choosing for them. We usually 
disregard their tastes, opportunities, or qualifi- 
cations. 

One man, who can give money only, is asked 
to address a meeting, and the born orator is 
asked for a check. A woman who is an expert 
housekeeper and mother, with scarce a spare 
moment to call her own, is besought to write on 
Hindoo Missions or something of that sort, and 

[85] 



the one who has all that literature at command, 
and a ready pen besides, is put on a table com- 
mittee. One who loves embroidery is asked to 
make a cake for a sale, and the born cook is 
made a collector and offends many; and so it 
goes. Why is this.^ 

" 'Tis no sin to labor in one's vocation," says 
Falstaff. It seems to me that work well done is 
just as acceptable if it chances to be that work 
which is agreeable to the doer, and in which 
some really good thought is expressed, as that 
which is not agreeable and involves some special 
and difficult preparation. 

This is the secret of much of the success of 
our Roman Catholic friends in their enterprises. 
Each one is assigned to work "in their own 
vocation." The matter of penance and self- 
denial is a simple matter of discipline, intended 
to test character and endurance. The work they 
exact is that for which they have a certain gift. 
It is true that they themselves do not always 
know what they do best, for Milton valued most 
highly his political essays, and Bunyan thought 
no small things of his halting, stupid verses. 
Besides this, if one's only talent is also their 
"breadwinner, there is something else to be con- 
sidered. " Just any little trifle you can throw off 
in five minutes," was the modest request made 
to a man who was paid a guinea a line for his 
writings. For him it was better to give the 
guinea. 

But, apart from this, it seems unnecessary to 
make duty so unpleasant, and even to refuse 
the name of duty to anything we really like to 
do; whereas, the pleasant duty is quite as im- 
portant as the unpleasant one. It would serve 
as well to believe so. 

[86] 



Gifts differ. It is not well to ask some one to 
address a meeting whose only gift is the making 
of salads and creams, or to ask a recitation of a 
singer, or a song from an elocutionist, or to 
demand of a deaf person that she buy tickets to 
a sacred concert, and, furthermore, attend it. 
How pleasant it would be if committees culti- 
vated the great and excellent thing — Painless 
Charity! 

The lack of tact in charitable work (and by 
that I mean loving work, whether doing or giv- 
ing) is what makes those who need help so 
reluctant to accept it. Sometimes they feel that 
you are doing a (more or less) disagreeable duty 
by them, or else giving them something you 
wish to get rid of. If they were once persuaded 
that you liked to do it they would allow it 
quickly enough. 

When you go around with a wishing cap it 
will meet with a joyous response, and you find 
what they really want and not what you think 
they need. These are those who have real need 
of Christmas. They will never wish audibly if 
they do not fully believe in the painless quality 
of your gifts. 



[87] 



CONCERNING WEDDING GIFTS 

MAIDS do not forget their ornaraents or 
brides their attire." Neither does the af- 
fianced maid forget her possible wedding 
gifts. It is a nice, jolly, friendly custom — as 
old as the Patriarchs. All the world loves a lover 
and every one looks kindly on the betrothed 
pair. God bless them, every one! Everybody 
feels an impulse to help build their nest, and, in 
most cases, the well-chosen gifts do help the 
nest-building. 

There are places, I forget just where, where 
wedding gifts are always in money, and are con- 
tributed by the wedding guests. These are places 
where all and everybody's circumstances are well 
known to everybody, and where the microbe of 
divorce is unknown, and the dear old phrase, 
"till death do us part," is a portion of married 
life as well as of the marriage ceremony. But I 
am not discussing divorce or embarrassing ques- 
tions regarding the ownership or division of 
wedding gifts. 

It requires as much diplomatic talent to be a 
successful giver of wedding gifts as would suflBce 
for an accredited envoy to St. Petersburg. To 
give just the right thing, and not the wrong 
thing; just enough, and not too much or too 
little to suit the tastes and needs and relation- 
ship of both giver and recipient, is the nicest of 
performances. It means foresight and intimate 
knowledge of the persons interested. 

Mary Wilkins wrote a story of a young couple 
about to marry, and in circumstances which ren- 
dered such wedding gifts as they might receive 

[88] 



of real importance. They happened to be phe- 
nominally unsuitable. Cut-glass finger bowls to 
a couple who habitually washed their hands at 
the kitchen sink (and were thankful for the 
sink, as being better than the pump). A forty- 
dollar set of chessmen for a couple who rose 
with the sun and retired with the same, and 
who went to church on Sundays; elegant sofa 
pillows and no sofa, etc. 

The wise woman of the story, in a fit of des- 
peration, returned the whole lot, explaining the 
whyness of her action, and checks and more 
suitable articles were substituted. It is all well 
enough in a story, but most of those givers in 
real life would have signed a pledge of total 
abstinence from wedding presents for the rest of 
their lives. 

In these days of profuse giving and reckless 
over-crowding of rooms and houses, there should 
be some concert of action between friends and 
relatives, and the plans and prospects of the 
couple to be benefited should be known and 
respected. If they are not to keep house they do 
not need sideboards and dining tables and 
chairs. If they do, they had better choose such 
things for themselves, for such mistakes are 
nearly fatal. In fact, the choosing of such things 
may be the keenest of pleasures to the young 

Try to avoid duplication. Mrs. Newlywed once 
told me that she had sixteen soup ladles among 
her presents, and added languidly, "and in my 
house soup is always served behind the screen, 
in any case." There is no end to the funny 
stories that one can tell of wedding gifts. The 
solution of the problem is, as usual, common 
sense. And in case of doubt, donHl But if you 

[89] 



can, resolve your doubt, and send a wise and 
tasteful gift. 

Just here is an opportunity to express an 
opinion of a custom of to-day, for it was not 
always thus. If one gives a wedding present, it 
is, or should be, an expression of respect, affec- 
tion, or regard. In that case one wishes one's 
gift to be of real benefit to the recipient. The 
card of the giver goes with it. It is usual to have 
a record of such gifts in a book, and notes of 
acknowledgment sent at once. Then the card 
is promptly suppressed and the gift depjosited 
in the place appointed for all such. Speedily the 
room assumes the aspect of a curio wareroom. 
Everything personal is eliminated. For all that 
appears, many of the articles might have been 
hired for the occasion, to be promptly returned 
with thanks and rent money. And, as a matter 
of fact, in the larger cities, such loans have 
taken place. 

When the gift is from friends of the groom, 
it may happen that business friends of his wish 
to testify their esteem and regard for him as a 
business man. A cardless gift in that case does 
no good. It may be mentioned to some confi- 
dential friend, but it fails of its object. Family 
gifts mean a good deal this way, too, often- 
times, especially from relatives on the other side. 
You see, there is a good deal of business mixed 
up with it, anyhow. If it is very valuable it 
causes comment, and the comment may as well 
be correct as otherwise. If it is going to testify 
good will and confidence, the groom might as 
well have the credit. His place on the wedding 
day is often obscure and insignificant. Let him 
have his chance if it comes. 

When expressing this opinion, I have been 

[90] 



answered, "It is to avoid ostentation. Those who 
give small and insignificant presents would be 
pained by contrast with richer and more expen- 
sive gifts." Don't worry about that. Nobody 
who ever gave a wedding gift thought it trifling 
or insignificant. Everybody thinks well of their 
own gifts and wishes to see them in an honor- 
able place and duly certified. And brides do not 
often undervalue any of their presents; and 
when the heart is tender at breaking old ties, 
and timid over new ones, every evidence of 
affection and regard is keenly appreciated. 

Well, the wedding over, the pair departed, 
and most of the valuables go to the safety deposit 
vault, and the hired plate to its owner. The 
unknown guest, in his well-chosen garments, 
has had his eye on his employer's property. 
The bride could not go into court and identify 
half of the things six months later. There is 
often a change of circumstances and residence, 
and there may be no real use for the presents, 
and they may lie for years in the vault. Some of 
them may find their way to rummage sales and 
be identified by the giver — who doesn't forget. 
I'm told this happened some years ago — act- 
ually happened. Therefore, choose well what 
you send. 

It is hoped that no bride will receive one gift 
the less for this article. It is only hoped that 
such gifts may be carefully chosen — be suit- 
able and shown with the cards of the givers, as 
is only proper and respectful. 

A few years ago I received from England a 
newspaper containing a description of a wed- 
ding in which I was interested. The bride was 
one of a family of fourteen children. A list of 
gifts was published, from the diamond pendant, 

[91] 



the gift of the bridegroom, down to a pin-cushion 
from one of the little cousins. Nobody was a bit 
ashamed of what they gave, and it was a lesson 
in candor at least. Cards are generally, however, 
not for publication but "as an evidence of good 
faith," like a newspaper contribution. 

Forty and fifty years ago the parents did not 
give wedding gifts. The trousseau and breakfast 
was considered to be their share, as indeed it 
was. It was just as well, for usually the parental 
purse assisted also in the housekeeping outfit. 
The wedding gifts were rather expected to come 
from kin and kind, a little further off than from 
parents. But it is a good custom on the whole. 
God bless the young folks, every one and every 
two! 



[92] 



CHRISTMAS — TWO DIFFERENT 
LIGHTS 

THERE was a time when Christmas was 
kept as a solemn and holy feast, and yet 
overflowing with joy and happiness. The 
joy and levity of men's hearts led them away at 
times. When the earliest Christian missionaries 
pleaded the gospel of Christ to the Norse and 
Scandinavian peoples, finding them keeping the 
Yule feast with wild excesses and heathen rites, 
they substituted the feast of the Nativity. It was 
certainly an improvement upon the character of 
the festival. But the wild, hot blood of the Norse- 
men would not down, and drinking and feasting 
and quarreling went on at the gentle feast of the 
Nativity as it had done at the previous festivals 
of Odin and Woden and Thor. 

For many, many years this went on. When, 
in the days of the Reformation, many sects arose 
all differing from each other, but each looking 
toward a purer standard of living, with right- 
eousness, temperance, and the humbler virtues 
as their life models. Among these the Puritans 
revolted most at the wild revelry of Christmas, 
the drunkenness, the brutality, and all the ex- 
cesses that were the practice of the higher classes 
of the English people. The Protestant element 
found much to protest against, and this was one 
of their grievances. If one could not have Christ- 
mas without all this riotous living, they would 
have none of Christmas at all. To them it 
meant cruelty, oppression, persecution, debauch- 
ery, and all that makes for corrupt life and per- 
verted standards. Everything connected with it 

[93] 



was condemned. With the Dutch Protestants, 
New Year's Day was substituted. In the early 
settlement of New York by the Dutch there was 
great respect paid to New Year's Day, with 
family gatherings and feasting and frolicking, 
and no quieter or purer than the ancient Christ- 
mas. The Scotch Presbyterians, to this day, pay 
much more respect to New Year's Day than to 
Christmas. The Puritans of New England would 
have neither of them, but, as it is a very poor 
heart that never rejoices in any way, they ap- 
pointed Thanksgiving Day as a union of an 
English Christmas, a family reunion, a Harvest 
Home, and a New Year's — all in one. It is 
a very recent thing that Christmas has been 
kept as a general festival or even as a legal 
holiday. 

We owe the discovery of Christmas to Charles 
Dickens. The Christmas carol set the bells ring- 
ing all over Christendom. We feasted with Bob 
Cratchit on his Christmas goose, we reveled with 
his children, we made merry at Dingley Dell 
with the Pickwickians, we shuddered at the sad- 
ness and rejoiced with great joy at the ringing 
of the "Chimes." The Cricket on the Hearth 
chirped to us, and we rejoiced at the brilliant 
possibilities of this old and newly restored 
Christmas. Not but what some of us had gone 
to church on Christmas Day, to a church full of 
evergreens and joyful with Christmas songs and 
chants, and modest gifts were exchanged, a few 
stockings were hung up, and we all exchanged 
** Merry Christmas.' But the storm of Christmas 
music that swept through Christendom became 
a universal anthem at the time of which I speak. 
Some fifty or perhaps sixty years ago was the 
beginning of it. Buffalo kept New Year's Day 

[94] 



with heart and soul. Christmas was confined to 
the children — a very few of them. 

Now it is all changed. New Year's Day is a 
legal holiday, of course, and a few very rich 
people with very large houses give large recep- 
tions. Then every one made New Year's calls, 
from the little boy in his first boots to the totter- 
ing nonegenarian, who might never see another 
New Year's Day. Ah, well! "Let that pass," as 
old Ben Rogers used to say. 

But Christmas! Now, are we not overdoing 
the thing almost as much as our ancestors did ? 
Not the *' Peace on Earth and Good Will to 
Men." We cannot get too much of that, even 
if we get it at all, which, at present dates, we 
are certainly not doing. 

But everything and everybody make gifts. 
Yes, and the worst of it is that they feel that 
they must. You value the gift of lover and 
friend, of kin and kind, but you do not want to 
feel that it is a result of a compulsory custom 
and not of a spontaneous impulse of affection 
and respect or gratitude. 

Someone has done a favor, one that cannot 
be repaid in kind or cash — one makes a Christ- 
mas gift. 

Someone needs help — one makes a Christmas 

gift. 

Someone wants to do as the others do because 
it would be mean not to — one makes a Christ- 
mas gift. 

One's friends are very dear to us, only they have 
everything — but one makes a Christmas gift. 

One loves one's neighbors — and makes a 
Christmas gift. 

One is fond of one's neighbor's child — and 
makes a Christmas gift. 

[95] 



And so it goes, till it grows into a mighty 
burden and a great care, and much labor, and 
perhaps debts, and one's home overflows and 
one's purse shrinks, and one must keep the gifts 
and each Christmas brings more (and we would 
feel dreadfully if it didn't) ; and we do it, for we 
feel that we make so many happy by doing so — 
and perhaps we do. Let us hope that we do. 

Still, I do not laiow if one reaches the full 
measure of Christmas joy after one is ten years 
old. We expect gifts that do not come and some 
come that are not expected or welcome. We do 
not find that the coal cellar fills up spontaneously, 
nor — except with a favored few — does the 
table groan with its culinary burdens. (By the 
bye, do tables ever groan ? I never heard one.) 
One expects full stockings, loaded Christmas 
trees, jolly visits, frolics, and tender words and 
greetings. But if anything is lacking, all is at an 
end. Your doll is stuffed with sawdust and you 
want to go into a convent. You have worked so 
hard to get ready that you are all worn out, and 
too ill to "share the equal feast." 

It seems to the writer that what we all need 
is not so much to cultivate the habit of giving 
generously as of receiving graciously. Giving and 
receiving, considered as a fine art, was once 
treated by this pen, as long ago as it was only a 
lead pencil. It is time for a last word from a 
widely varied experience. Don't sa^^ to the one 
who gives you a choice bit of handiwork, "Ah, 
you should see what Mrs. So-and-So gave me, 
so large and so many of them and such exquisite 
work. This happened once on a time. Nor of 
a book — "Yes, it is very well, but I prefer 
works by So-and-So. This writer was never a 
favorite of mine." How one does wilt under such 

[96] 



a reception ! There are a thousand ways of mak- 
ing the giver of a present either happy or wretched 
by suggesting that the gift should be other than 
it is. 

*'I suppose she likes to do it, or she wouldn't 
do it." Yes, there are some who do like to be 
generous, thank God! But when a gift is offered, 
what should be done is to receive it graciously 
and gratefully, whether it is the thing greatly 
desired or not. For any gift costs something, and 
often a great deal. Sometimes money, sometimes 
taste, sometimes good will, gratitude, affection, 
and often politeness, sweetness, and all that 
makes up a gracious character, and it is a tang- 
ible expression of many, if not all, of these qual- 
ities, and, therefore, worthy of respect and rec- 
ognition. It is a marvel that the practice of 
giving continues, in spite of so many failures to 
appreciate its values. How often is an eagerly 
solicited subscription left unacknowledged, and 
the only receipt is the cancelled check at the 
end of the month. It is a matter of course that 
So-and-So should be kind and generous. True, 
but one should not take all that for granted. 

One's faults are no more likely to make ene- 
mies than one's virtues. One may be without one 
redeeming fault, and yet have no friends. Louis 
XIV. had every fault, and most of the vices in 
the calendar, but he was always gracious and 
was much beloved. So it was with Charles II., 
having every fault and yet many friends were 
won by his courtesy. I once gave a gift to a 
little boy. "Thank the lady," said the mother. 
"Not until I see what it is," said he; "maybe I 
won't thank her at all when I open it." Suppose 
he didn't like it. I hope he will be more polite 
when he is older. 

[97] 



Just a word more. Just a hint on choosing. 
It is good to give things that are needed, but it 
is good sometimes to give pretty, useless, and 
comforting things. It depends ; but both are good. 
One must know the person and their character 
very well to give wearing apparel or ornaments. 
Don't give paintings, embroidery, or such things 
to one who excels in those arts, (or thinks that 
she does,) or ornaments and jewels to the rich, 
or books to a student in his own line of work. 
If you give a pair of shoes to a child, give also 
a toy or a sweet. You may share your delicacies, 
and lend your books, but don't give away gifts 
unless for excellent reason. You wouldn't like to 
see your own gifts given away. Ribbons open up 
a wide field of generosity, especially hair ribbons, 
etc. Children all like books of adventure, and 
fine handkerchiefs wipe tears from many eyes. 
Consider spaces in which they will be used, in 
choosing bulky articles. Never choose a hat, a 
bonnet, a picture, or a lover for another. So 
shalt thou escape trouble. 

Don't give "things with a string to them" 
and conditions. It is so good to own things com- 
pletely. Consider also the other side, and if 
money is given, don't divert it from its purpose 
without permission. It is said that it is more 
blessed to give than to receive. If that is true, 
better let "the other fellow take his chance at a 
blessing." Don't be too greedy of blessings, but 
accept politely and kindly. Remember, also, that 
gifts and generosity must be paid for. It isn't 
pleasant to think that your friend incurred awk- 
ward debts to be generous to you. January is 
notoriously a bad month to collect debts. 

After all is over and the parcels gone, and the 
last box of candy provided, and the Christmas 

[98] 



cakes for breakfast, in come requests and claims 
for all sorts of "unconsidered trifles." There are 
huge charities and church festivals, and trees, 
and the workmen expect something and ought 
to have it, and if one goes in for all sorts of 
things, there is certain to be debt and incon- 
venience that the finest self-denial will hardly 
meet and satisfy. So consider well. The little 
strange boys who perpetually ring your bell and 
wish you a Merry Christmas are just little beg- 
gars. If you give to them, it is only to beggars — 
and should be so understood. It is difl^erent 
when they are your own dear little friends. 

When one chooses a gift one should pray for 
wisdom, love, and discretion ; and when accept- 
ing, for sweetness and grace. How gracious was 
Christ's acceptance of the costly box of ointment! 
How sweetly did he rebuke the niggardly spirit 
which suggested that it be sold for an hundred 
pence and given to the poor! Let the gift be 
worthy of both giver and receiver — and let the 
acceptance alike be worthy of both. 

There was once a Little Old Lady, but she did 
not know that she was either little or old. She 
planned a Christmas party. She was to have a 
party of ten in all, and they were too old for 
either Christmas stockings or Christmas trees. 
So it was all quite different for them. All the 
gifts intended for the Little Old Lady herself had 
been opened by her quite early on Christmas 
morning, and her pleasure and her tears were 
enjoyed, quite by herself, at that time. Then all 
the people in her house, her house family, all had 
their gifts, and some of her poor and blameless 
friends outside had also been remembered, for 
she was fond of good people, rich and poor. 
The younger folks went to church, but the Little 

[99] 



Old Lady was very busy at home, and her heart 
sang Christmas carols all day. The parlor, 
which was also the library, was hung with 
greens and with holly berries, and at six o'clock 
the dinner was ready and ten beloveds sat down 
to the table, and they ate the soup and turkey, 
and the pudding and mince pies, and the ice 
cream and coffee, and lots of candy, and were 
satisfied, and went back into the parlor. There 
was an alcove where the bookcases stood, and a 
high screen shut it off from the room. Most of 
the guests sat down to wait developments. There 
was a great jangling of sleigh bells and the two 
smiling maids carried away the screen. There 
sat the village postmistress beside a pile of 
stuff, and on a little table was a teapot and cup 
and saucer. The bells jangled again and she 
exclaimed, "There's Santa Claus now. I knew 
he wouldn't be late." Santa Claus, in a fur cap 
and cape, came in. It was the Little Old Lady 
herself with a bag of letters. The Post-office 
Mistress said, "As so many letters were published 
in books nowadays there couldn't be any harm 
in just reading these." So, while the Post-ofl5ce 
Mistress sorted the letters, Santa Claus took off 
the cover to the heap of things, and we all saw 
a steamer trunk marked "Wanted," and lots of 
parcels. The Post-office Mistress wore a pretty 
cap and kerchief, and opened and read the 
letters and the addresses aloud. They were all in 
some sort of verses, some funny, all jolly, and 
were not poetry, only jingles, and suited each 
person and the gifts which Santa Claus presented 
to the person. It made a good deal of fun, as 
each one opened his or her gift, and threw the 
wrappers behind the sofas, and every one saw 
all the others. Last of all, the bells and the trunk 

[ 100] 



were presented to the young man of the house, 
and afterwards his horse wore the bells, and the 
young man went over the sea with his trunk. 
The postmistress read beautifully, and the 
verses sounded almost like poetry, some of them. 
Afterwards all had some more ice cream and 
went home, except the house family. Everybody 
liked their presents, and if they didn't, the Little 
Old Lady never suspected it, not even that she 
was little and old herself. 



[ 101] 



A POST-CHRISTMAS WORD 

IT is said by them of the New Notions: 
"Do your shopping for Christmas early 
(before December 15th)." 

"Go early in the day and avoid the lunch 
hours of the shop people." 

"Carry home your own parcels, if possible." 

"Remember and make something for Christ- 
mas each month in the year, and avoid hurry at 
the end of the year." 

And a good deal more to the same effect. 

Christmas is now past, and its yearly lesson is 
with us. We have given and received. We have 
enjoyed, and possibly suffered, and let us hope 
that we live more and more wisely as each 
Christmas passes to its account. 

Ever since I found out the sweet falsehood of 
Santa Claus, and knew that Christmas giving 
was something that I, too, although a child, 
might share, I have been a Christmas giver, and 
for many years a Christmas buyer as well. Year 
by year I learned many things about these mat- 
ters, pleasant and otherwise. The sweetness re- 
mains, but sometimes the wisdom is bitter in 
the mouth. 

"Beginning early" is not always possible, for 
comparatively few of us get our Christmas money 
together much before that date. We are some- 
times delayed even in getting together materials 
for Christmas work. Besides being impossible, 
sometimes for the reason it is undesirable. Con- 
ditions may change in the course of the months 
that may make our choice premature and inju- 
dicious, such as finding out about the taste, 

[102] 



preferences, conditions, wishes, etc., of the re- 
ceivers. 

And, then, it is not possible sometimes, 
because the shops and goods are not ready. 
They do not receive their goods much before 
December, nor do they display them to an 
undecided public. One would think that they 
would, but they do not. I don't know why. 
Sometimes only samples are shown, and "they 
will send for it for you," and it does not 
always arrive in season, and sometimes mis- 
takes are made and changes necessary. Perhaps 
it is long after New Year's before it arrives. 
And what do you get for your promptness but 
vexation of spirit.? 

"Try to make some one thing for Christmas 
gifts every month of the year." 

It seems to the observer that each month in 
the year has enough of its own special cares to 
load the Marthas of to-day to their utmost 
endurance. 

January is the month of settlements, of end- 
ings and of beginnings, and of social cares and 
enjoyments, of the holiday season itself, and of 
getting over it. 

February is the month of forecasting, of sew- 
ing, of club studies, of linen buying and making, 
of winter journeys. 

March, of the same subject continued, with 
forecasts of changes, of repairs, of house clean- 
ing, of planning for the future, often of sickness 
and nursing. 

April, of dressmaking, shopping, of busy 
household planning and working, of gardening, 
of busy Easter vacations, of the going to and 
fro of many young folks. 

May brings moving and flitting, of prepara- 

[103] 



tions for weddings, for summer travels and 
country life, of gardening, etc. 

June brings many cares. There are sure to be 
guests, weddings, graduations, and commence- 
ments, and college boys and girls coming and 
going. 

July is a month of travel, of entertainment, of 
household packing and unpacking. 

August may bring a little rest and leisure, 
quietness, veranda days, pleasant reading, and 
inevitable heat, and if within the zone of the 
automobile, every hour of leisure is preempted 
most delightfully and absorbingly. And who 
wants to do fancy work nowadays, anyhow ? 

September is full of cares; coming back to 
town, dressmaking for school children and col- 
legians, cleaning of houses filled with summer 
dust and use or disuse, and of getting the 
youngsters to school. 

October is the month of debutantes and of 
entertaining, often of weddings and betrothals 
of brides, guests, and travelers. 

And November is like unto it but even more 
so, while, through the whole year is the steady 
undertone of 

** Three meals a day, three meals a day, 

Hours for work and hours for play. 

Family, neighbors and churches and clubs, 
Cooking and sewing and ironing and tubs. 

Where is the leisure for extras, I pray? " 

Besides, suppose it is done months before, 
and then suppose some of hundreds of possible 
accidents and changes, even illness and death, 
make your work and choice totally unsuitable, 
and you have to do it all over again.? What 
profiteth it.f^ 

Suppose some wise forehanded person should 

[ 104] 



decide that it would be a great saving of time 
to begin harvest in June, so as to get all through 
before the heat of summer came on ? Or to make 
maple sugar in October, because it is so nice to 
have it fresh for winter pancakes ? 

After all, there is really no time for seed time 
and harvest unless in the time of seed time and 
harvest, except for the hothouse system, which 
does not work in all cases. You cannot do it, 
you know. 

Early in December one begins to feel Christ- 
mas in the air, and such parcels as have far to 
travel must start early. But you cannot really 
make up your mind what John and Mary and 
Martha wish for before the fifteenth of Decem- 
ber. By that time, one can smell the evergreens, 
the spruce and cedar and hemlock, and the cake 
or the candy, and the fresh paint on the toys 
and the straw of the packing. By then, and not 
much before, the goods are displayed, and you 
have your Christmas money and plan where you 
can hide some of the things. (By the bye, how 
do the dwellers in flats manage with the big 
mechanical toys, tricycles, etc., unless all the 
family are blind ?) 

By then the new girls and boys have a little 
time to learn a little of their business, and to 
discover that their business is to sell and show 
goods and not to talk of ** seeing Charley last 
night." By that time the children and the elders 
have worn their wishing-caps and have stopped 
buying things for themselves. Crowded.^ Why, 
of course! But it is a jolly, kindly crowd, and you 
tnow that you like it. It is the time o' year 
when the grand folks get out to buy things, and 
the bewildered men and the worried mammas 
and the big-eyed children and the sly aunts and 

[105] 



cousins dodge each other more or less success- 
fully. What fun it is! 

Of course, the clerks do get tired. It must be 
so, for all must work in harvest time, and for 
some it is the only chance either for work or 
harvest. And I heard only a short time ago that 
the "early birds" having got through shopping 
and having carried home their things, many 
bundle-boys are not hired and many girls are 
*'not required," and thereby some money is saved 
to the dealers, and just so many disappointed 
young folks who wished to earn a little extra 
and help out at home. It is inevitable that one 
is very tired in harvest time. But one cannot do 
without harvest time. 

And if it is too much — don't do too much! 
One generally does too much and one is sure 
to forget some dear or needy friend. If it is so, 
one can always make or give an " un-Christmas " 
present, or Easter, or birthday, or — just a 
present. 

When the cold, sharp days and the keen, 
bright nights of December are upon us, and the 
thoughts of home and love and children, and the 
tender cares of the old, and the sweet needs of 
the young children, and the lacks of the poor 
all appeal to us, and the mirth of the young and 
the wishes of every one fill our hearts with love 
and our hands with cares, then is the time to 
stir about the shopping and the Christmas work, 
even if some of it does get crowded out. It is 
better not to dilute the Christmas feeling to its 
highest attenuation by spreading it over many 
months and weeks beforehand, and demanding 
months and weeks of rest afterwards. 

Everything in its due season! 

[ 106] 



THE JOY OF LIFE 

SINCE the discovery of the pure joy of living 
and since the disappearance of the gloomy 
and sentimental school of literature — 
Byron, Bulwer, Hemans, Balzac, and others of 
a similar point of view — and since the brevity 
of life and its real work, grief, trials, and suffer- 
ing have been found capable of amelioration, 
existence has been a different thing altogether 
and has borne a different color. The sentimental 
miss with her pose of chronic sadness and senti- 
ment, with her moon-gazing and melancholy 
quotations of depressing thought is gone, and is 
as if she had never been. The man who did not 
find this world going his way and cried out, '*I 
have not loved the world nor the world loved 
me," has also passed away nowadays ; he makes 
it go his way, and if he cannot, he accepts the 
other way and has learned not to make a nuis- 
ance of himself with his wailings over his sad 
fate. 

It takes time to learn to bear it thus, but it 
has been learned, and it can be learned, and the 
world is far better, wiser, and happier for being 
thus lightly borne. 

In former days the brevity of life, its sadness 
and uncertainties, the darker side of religion, 
the hardships and privations of ill-fortune, 
"when friends desert and foes prevail," were 
often and disastrously dwelt upon. 

In America there were many material ob- 
stacles with which to contend — a hard soil, a 
stern climate, savage foes, scanty means, aspir- 
ing souls — exacting principles, and consciences 

[107] 



withflofty ideals, kept nerve and soul under 
continual strain, and whip and spur all of the 
time. Many were those of the brightest and best 
who — 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life." 

Often, even by loving friends, cheerfulness 
was called levity ; patience, indolence ; and seri- 
ousness and earnestness became the first duty of 
life. It is not to be wondered that these sad- 
colored views prevailed. 

There was great reserve, and reticence often- 
times, and no one knew the soul-trials of near 
friends. There was sharp economy, but little real 
poverty, and if there were, nobody owned to it. 

In time (what a blessed thing time is, by the 
bye) the earth yielded her increase. But it did 
not increase enough to support its numerous 
and energetic family. 

The rocky hills and stony pastures of New 
England sent forth sturdy sons and industrious 
daughters to till the more fruitful fields of the 
West — farther West — the far West — the utter- 
most parts of the earth. 

In the clear sunshine and among the golden 
grainfields things began to look more cheerful. 
All sorts of opportunities began to offer them- 
selves, especially those of travel, and while the 
fascinations of the older world of civilization 
held fast to some, and gave to all a wider vision, 
the comforts of life, the freedom, the oppor- 
tunities, the loves and friendships, the freedom 
and the liberty (they are not the same thing, 
although they seem so), the respect and tender- 
ness of men to women, the comradery and sim- 
plicity of the love of women to men, gradually 

[108] 



changed the face of everything and drew us 
back home again with irresistible power. 

We had so much here at home, and it was all 
so good, that we could and did share it with the 
hordes and troops of emigrants who came and 
made themselves of us. We learned to play and 
not to forsake work, and the emigrants worked, 
and in time learned to play also. 

Within the last twenty or thirty years people 
discovered that, although the farm work is just 
as important, it is not quite as hard. Learning 
is quite as difficult but not as difficult to obtain. 
They find that the city is not altogether peopled 
by "airy nothings" and supercilious weaklings, 
overdressed and ignorant men and women, and 
that the country is not full of ignorant and over- 
worked men and women, and that it is not 
entirely the sole object of life to overreach each 
other in both and all classes. 

Schools do not always demoralize the young, 
even boarding schools, and visits of the city and 
country mice are not always disastrous. That a 
reasonable ambition and desire for fresh house 
paint and muslin curtains does not always lead 
to the poorhouse, and that hints and patterns 
help to inform one for a better and brighter 
outlook for clothes, table, and daily life. That it 
is sometimes a good thing to go into the country, 
not as troublesome and exacting guests, but as 
well-paying and well-treated summer boarders, 
thus bringing the more strenuous, if more inter- 
esting, life of the city in contact with the more 
simple and hard-working life of the country, to 
the profit and benefit of both. 

From these needs and beginnings came 
the summer boarder, the one crop of the 
country not dependent on climate, weather, or 

[109] 



soil, and which fails not in any season, wet or 
dry. 

In the older time, when the summer host was 
rare and difficult, and the summer guest frequent 
and objectionable, such children as had no rural 
aunt or grandmother staid in the city through 
the hot summer, and a good many of them were 
gone before autumn. The country folk toiled 
hard to make ends meet, and they did not al- 
ways meet, and mortgages and all sorts of dis- 
tressing things prevailed. They did not want 
city folks bothering around, wanting horses to 
drive about in haying and harvesting, bringing 
weeds and litter into the house and putting all 
sorts of foolish notions into the young folks* 
heads. 

But in time the square peg found the square 
hole, and square conduct on both sides helped 
things. The young folks exchanged books and 
patterns, worked and played together, to the 
advantage of both. The idea of overreaching on 
both sides yielded to mutual respect and good 
will. Sometimes there were marriages, but that 
was a by-product, and not the primary object of 
the experiment. 

And so in time there grew up a great love for 
the beautiful green world, so new and strange to 
the "denizens of the pent city mart," which had 
only been, hitherto, regarded in an agricultural 
light. Also, opportunities from the city's culture 
and privileges came to the country mouse. Of 
course, there were sometimes ill-effects, morbid 
desires and disappointments, misplaced attach- 
ments, and wrecked lives. But these things hap- 
pen in all situations and conditions, and will do 
so while human nature is imperfect. 

With the use of certain machines the drudgery 

[110] 



of the farm was diminished, and although more 
and better work was done, much of it was 
easier. Magazines and papers came in and opin- 
ions of the world's topics began to seek a level 
in both town and country. Rural delivery, tele- 
graph, telephone, trolley roads, bicycles, and, 
last of all, automobiles and good roads extended 
the work of a better acquaintance, and of peace 
and good will between the different parts of the 
country. 

It has gone so far, and summer boarders are 
so numerous, that country homes are springing 
up all over the country and waste places blos- 
som like the rose. One does not consider the soil 
as much as the air, nor insist upon vegetable 
gardens as much as play-grounds for rosy chil- 
dren — not huge palaces of wealth and gaiety, 
but honest, simple, healthful country homes. If 
not by the seashore, where the nabobs have 
preempted every stretch of beach or lift of rock 
or mountain, (and shame to them for doing it,) 
by some pretty stream or lake or pond, or some 
neat and pleasant village where the young ones 
can play in sun or shade, feed chickens, and 
hunt eggs. 

(Speaking of eggs, who would have thought 
of the barely tolerated hen taking such a place 
in the social scheme ? Foolish and despised Bid- 
dycut has paid off many a mortgage, and in 
some States the interest on the State debt. 
Fact! So say Kansas statistics. And no fricas- 
sees are like country fricassees, and no eggs 
like those brought in, pink and warm, in a 
little boy's hat for the breakfast table.) 

There are places where children can play in 
sand and have real play-houses under trees, and 
wade in brooks and grow brown and rosy, spite 

[111] 



of mosquitoes, ivy, and all ills to which country 
flesh is subject. 

City life, too, has so greatly changed, and for 
the better. While club life is easily overdone, 
and is very bad if it is, there are so many kinds 
of clubs, and so many ways of using them, that 
on the whole it is an excellent thing. That is, 
for the large majority, whom, I maintain, are 
composed mostly of sensible folks, and of those 
who, more or less wisely, live up to their privi- 
leges. 

One may not personally care for tea (I do 
not very much, myself), especially in daily and 
unlimited quantities. But the tea of social life, 
where friend meets friend and acquaintances, 
and exchange a kindly greeting, is, on the whole, 
an excellent thing. It costs little, either trouble 
or expense. Any one can do it, and the quality 
of the gossip held over the teacups is constantly 
modified and sweetened by the imperceptible 
percolation of Christian feeling. 

There was a time when a great and good man 
prayed, "Oh, Lord! avenge me of mine ene- 
mies!" Men do not pray that way nowadays, 
even if they sometimes feel that way. If the 
thought of "getting even" with an injury occurs 
to them, then the thought of the endless chain 
of misery, like a mountaineer's feud or vendetta, 
comes to mind and the unworthy thought is 
abandoned. In fact, "it isn't done," and the 
practical wisdom, the hard, everyday, j)ractical 
force of the Golden Rule becomes as evident as 
its Divine Sweetness. 

Not long ago I was told of a dinner party 
given by a newcomer to a small town, wnere, 
of the ten guests, three were not on speaking 
terms. "Now, what would you do.?" 

[112] 



If I knew it, I would not seat them side by 
side. But if I did not know it, and did invite 
them, they would be the better for meeting, and 
seeing more of each other, and thereby getting 
over their enmities. Of course, if one knew all 
about it, it would be foolish to risk spoiling your 
little dinner by forcing together such discordant 
elements, but it is best not to be looking out 
for such conditions. Life is too short not to live 
up to all one's privileges. 

There are many old fashions that are "more 
honored in the breach than in the observance." 
A stock piece of good advice often given by 
them of old time, when their young folks went 
forth to school or business in another place, was 
this: *'A few well-chosen friends." Good, as far 
as it goes. But how are you going to choose 
your friends ? Who ever really did choose friends ? 
You will have a chance to make acquaintances, 
doubtless, and perhaps to make selections from 
them of some you prefer. You make them or 
not by proximity or distance, and you cannot 
overcome that, at least at first. Make all the 
friends you can (there will not be too many, for 
they are watching you, too, as well) and with 
prudent reserve at first to all. As time goes on, 
friend after friend departs. They must, and if 
you have not a good many, so much the worse 
for you. Especially as you grow in years, seek 
friends — many of them — with younger folks. 

The younger people of to-day are very sweet 
and tender to the older people. That is one of 
the joys of living in this cycle. The worst of it 
is, that it may develop the habit of longevity to 
an alarming extent, and just when the habit is 
established the fashion may change. 

But the jolly country homes, with all sorts of 

[113] 



nice people coining and going, and some of 
them staying, are good places for old and young 
both. And the afternoon tea, with just a friendly 
hand-touch and a few kindly words — frivolous, 
perhaps, but kindly — possibly epigrammatic, 
is good. Conversation does not mean long, 
preachy, teachy, talky discourses. One must 
learn to condense, as in a telegram, "in ten 
words," or a telephone. "Boil it down," says 
the wise "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 
"whether it is conversation, MSS., or greens." 
And when you go home you will remember these 
brief, bright words and messages, and thank 
goodness that bores are out of fashion. And 

heart to heart talks" take too much vitality, 
and develop too much egotism and self-con- 
sciousness. 

And there's another old notion exploded. 
"Never forget yourself in company." 

But doy by all means, forget yourself. You can 
enjoy your own company at any time. Now is 
your chance to get new ideas, see new objects, 
obtain new impressions. You may even acquire 
a bit of wisdom, if on the lookout for it. One 
does not, nowadays, go out in best clothes with 
a card case for calls. It ends with cards, if you 
do. But in a kindly, joyous, friendly crowd you 
get the sweetness of many visits. You move 
about, you see those you seldom see, you see 
your familiar friend, you need not stay long 
with any one, acceptable or otherwise ; you need 
not shake them off, for they do not expect to 
remain long with you. You cannot overeat on 
tea and cakes. Others come and go; plans can 
be laid for other meetings. 

Long live the afternoon tea! for it is a picture 
whose perspective constantly changes, and for 

[114] 



which summer sun shines and winter fires blaze 
— where Easter flowers bloom, and spruce tree 
and pine tree and cedar, together, welcome 
friends at Christmas time for a kind word and 
a cup of tea. 



[115] 



INDIAN SUMMER 

IT is not nearly night — 
Although the shadows lengthen. 
Although the cool winds strengthen, 
The western sun shines bright. 

There has been frost, 'tis true; 
Red leaves cling to the tree — 
The wind blows fresh and free. 

And sunny days grow few. 

Bright curves the new moon's ray. 
The planets burn like lamps — 
Or fires in hunters' camps — 

No night, 'tis but the close of day. 

Fall odors fill the air, 

'Tis ripeness, not decay; 

An Indian Summer day, 
'Tis bright and cool, but very still and fair. 

How fair the sky! 

How fresh the evening breeze 
Sings through the naked trees! 

No earthly sound nor cry! 

The hour of rest draws near. 

The time of blessed rest 

(Of earthly things the best) 
Falls through the evening clear. 

The day was very long. 

Sometimes the load was sore 
That wearily we bore — 

But like a Sabbath song, 

[116] 



XlO'? 



Sweet as a brooding dove, 

Through evening cool and calm, 
Comes sleep like Sabbath Psalm, 

Peace in her hands, and love. 

"He gave to His beloved sleep," 
It was not dreary night, 
And in the east shines bright 
The sun of holy hope, across the deep. 



[117] 



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